III. Луковка

Morozova's house itself was large, of stone, two storeys high, old, and very unsightly to look at; the landlady herself lived in it as a recluse, an old woman, together with her two nieces, who were also women well on in years.

She had no need to let out the annex in her yard, but everyone knew that she had taken Grushenka in as a tenant (some four years earlier) solely to oblige her own kinsman, the merchant Samsonov, Grushenka's open protector.

It was said that the jealous old man, in lodging his "favourite" with Morozova, had at first counted on the old woman's sharp eye to keep watch over his new tenant's conduct.

But the sharp eye very soon proved unnecessary, and it ended with Morozova rarely even meeting Grushenka and, toward the last, not pestering her with any supervision at all.

True, four years had already passed since the old man brought into this house, from a provincial town, an eighteen-year-old girl — timid, bashful, slight, thin, pensive, and sad — and since then much water had flowed under the bridge.

This girl's history, however, was known among us in the town only sparsely and confusedly; nor did anyone learn more of it later, even at the very time when a great many had begun to take an interest in the "raving beauty" that Agrafena Alexandrovna had turned into over four years.

There were only rumours that, while still a girl of seventeen, she had been deceived by someone — by some officer, supposedly — and then at once abandoned by him.

The officer, they said, had gone away and married somewhere later, while Grushenka was left in disgrace and destitution.

It was said, however, that although Grushenka had indeed been taken out of destitution by her old man, she came of an honest family and was somehow of clerical stock — the daughter of some superannuated deacon or something of that sort.

And so, in four years, out of a sensitive, wronged, and pitiful little orphan there had emerged a rosy-cheeked, full-bodied Russian beauty, a woman of bold and resolute character, proud and brazen, who understood the value of money, an acquirer, stingy and cautious, and who already — by fair means or foul, as people said of her — had managed to scrape together a little capital of her own.

On one point alone everyone was convinced: that access to Grushenka was hard to come by, and that, apart from the old man, her protector, there had not been, in all four years, a single man who could boast of her favour.

The fact was a solid one, for no few hunters had come leaping forward to win that favour, particularly over the last two years.

But all their attempts proved in vain, and some of these suitors were obliged to retreat with an even comic and shameful denouement, thanks to the firm and mocking rebuff dealt them by the spirited young woman.

It was further known that the young woman, especially in the last year, had launched into what is called "speculation", and that in this line she had shown extraordinary aptitude, so that toward the end many dubbed her a regular Jewess.

It was not that she lent money at interest, but it was known, for instance, that in partnership with Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov she had for a time actually been buying up promissory notes for next to nothing, a dime on the rouble, and afterwards collected a rouble on the dime for some of those notes.

The ailing Samsonov, who in the last year had lost the use of his swollen legs — a widower, a tyrant over his grown-up sons, a great man of a hundred thousand, a niggardly and implacable man — had nonetheless fallen under the strong influence of his protégée, whom at first he had kept in hedgehog gloves and on short commons, "on Lenten oil," as the wags of the day put it.

But Grushenka managed to emancipate herself, having, however, instilled in him a boundless trust as to her faithfulness to him.

This old man, a great man of business (now long dead), was likewise of a remarkable character — above all stingy and hard as flint — and though Grushenka had so struck him that he could not even live without her (in the last two years, for example, that was precisely how it was), still he did not set aside for her any large, substantial capital, and even had she threatened to leave him altogether, he would still have remained implacable.

But in return he did set aside a small capital, and when this became known, it too astonished everyone.

"You're no fool yourself, my girl," he said to her, setting aside some eight thousand for her, "so run it yourself; but know that, apart from your yearly keep as before, until my very death you'll get nothing more out of me, and in my will I'll set aside nothing more for you either."

And he was as good as his word: he died and left everything to his sons, whom he had kept beside him all their lives on a level with servants, along with their wives and children, and of Grushenka he made no mention at all in his will.

All this became known afterwards.

But with his counsel as to how to run "her own capital" he helped Grushenka not a little, and pointed out "ventures" to her.

When Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, who had first become entangled with Grushenka over a single chance "deal," ended — quite unexpectedly to himself — by falling head over heels in love with her, as though he had even lost his wits, old Samsonov, who by that time was already at his last gasp, chuckled heartily.

It is remarkable that Grushenka was, throughout the whole time of their acquaintance, fully and even as it were cordially candid with her old man — and this, it seems, with the one and only person in the world.

In the very latest period, when Dmitri Fyodorovich too suddenly appeared with his love, the old man stopped laughing.

On the contrary, one day he gravely and sternly advised Grushenka: "If you really must choose between the two, the father or the son, then choose the old man — but only on condition, mind you, that the old scoundrel marries you without fail, and beforehand makes over to you at least some capital.

And don't take up with the captain — no good will come of it."

Such were the very words of the old voluptuary to Grushenka — words of a man who already foresaw his own death close at hand, and who indeed died five months after giving this counsel.

I will note further, in passing, that although even many in our town knew at the time of the absurd and grotesque rivalry of the Karamazovs, father and son, whose object was Grushenka, hardly anyone then understood the real meaning of her relations to the two of them, to the old man and to the son.

Even both of Grushenka's maidservants (after the catastrophe that later broke out, of which there is still more to be told) afterwards testified at the trial that Agrafena Alexandrovna received Dmitri Fyodorovich out of sheer fear alone, because, supposedly, "he threatened to kill her."

She had two servants — one a very old cook, left over from her parents' household, sickly and almost deaf, and the other the cook's granddaughter, a young, brisk girl of about twenty, Grushenka's chambermaid.

As for Grushenka herself, she lived very frugally and in altogether modest surroundings.

In her annex she had in all three rooms, furnished by the landlady with ancient mahogany furniture in the style of the twenties.

When Rakitin and Alyosha came in to her, full dusk had already fallen, but the rooms were not yet lit.

Grushenka herself was lying in her drawing room, on her big, ungainly, high-backed sofa veneered in mahogany — hard, and upholstered in leather long since worn and full of holes.

Under her head were two white down pillows from her bed.

She lay on her back, stretched out motionless, with both hands tucked behind her head.

She was dressed up, as though expecting someone, in a black silk gown and a light lace cap on her head that became her very well; over her shoulders was thrown a lace shawl, pinned with a massive gold brooch.

She was indeed waiting for someone — lying there as if in anguish and impatience, her face somewhat paled, her lips and eyes feverish, the tip of her right foot tapping impatiently against the arm of the sofa.

The moment Rakitin and Alyosha appeared, a small commotion arose: it could be heard from the entry how Grushenka quickly sprang up from the sofa and suddenly cried out in fright, "Who's there?"

But the maid met the visitors and at once called back to her mistress.

"It isn't him, ma'am, it's others, these are nothing to worry about."

"What's the matter with her?" Rakitin muttered, leading Alyosha by the hand into the drawing room.

Grushenka was standing by the sofa, still as if in fright.

A thick lock of her dark-brown braid had suddenly slipped out from under her cap and fallen onto her right shoulder, but she did not notice it and did not put it right until she had looked closely at the visitors and recognized them.

"Ah, it's you, Rakitka? You gave me a real fright. Who's that with you? Who is it you've got there? Lord, look who he's brought!" she exclaimed, making out Alyosha.

"Why don't you tell them to bring candles!" said Rakitin, with the offhand air of a most intimate, close friend who even has the right to give orders about the house.