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Updated: May 5, 2025
She looked intently into her eyes; she still saw in those eyes the same simple-hearted, confiding expression, the same bright gayety. “She’s perhaps too naïve,” thought Katerina Ivanovna, with a gleam of hope. Grushenka meanwhile seemed enthusiastic over the “sweet hand.” She raised it deliberately to her lips.
“Well, if so, I won’t either,” chimed in Grushenka, “I really don’t want any. You can drink the whole bottle alone, Rakitin. If Alyosha has some, I will.” “What touching sentimentality!” said Rakitin tauntingly; “and she’s sitting on his knee, too! He’s got something to grieve over, but what’s the matter with you? He is rebelling against his God and ready to eat sausage....” “How so?”
I had heard, and I know for a fact now, that that captain, father’s agent, had given Grushenka an I.O.U. of mine for her to sue me for payment, so as to put an end to me. They wanted to scare me. I went to beat her. I had had a glimpse of her before. She doesn’t strike one at first sight. I knew about her old merchant, who’s lying ill now, paralyzed; but he’s leaving her a decent little sum.
Grushenka in The Brothers Karamazov is another woman of the demoniac type to which Nastasia belongs. The border-land of puberty is a favourite theme with the Russian writer. He is half cracked and an epileptic, but is one of the most lovable young men in fiction.
“That’s enough!” he shouted in his ringing voice. “What’s the matter?” Mitya stared at him. “That’s enough! I don’t want you to play any more. Don’t!” “Why?” “Because I don’t. Hang it, come away. That’s why. I won’t let you go on playing.” Mitya gazed at him in astonishment. “Give it up, Mitya. He may be right. You’ve lost a lot as it is,” said Grushenka, with a curious note in her voice.
“One doesn’t often stumble upon champagne,” he said, licking his lips. “Now, Alyosha, take a glass, show what you can do! What shall we drink to? The gates of paradise? Take a glass, Grushenka, you drink to the gates of paradise, too.” “What gates of paradise?” She took a glass, Alyosha took his, tasted it and put it back. “No, I’d better not,” he smiled gently. “And you bragged!” cried Rakitin.
“You do that, panie,” said Mitya, recognizing with despair that all was over, “because you hope to make more out of Grushenka? You’re a couple of capons, that’s what you are!” “This is a mortal insult!” The little Pole turned as red as a crab, and he went out of the room, briskly, as though unwilling to hear another word.
He wore a dressing-gown and a cotton nightcap, and was evidently ill and weak, though he was smiling blissfully. When the homeless old man returned with Grushenka from Mokroe two months before, he had simply stayed on and was still staying with her. He arrived with her in rain and sleet, sat down on the sofa, drenched and scared, and gazed mutely at her with a timid, appealing smile.
I will only observe that Mitya looked upon Grushenka’s past as something completely over. He looked on that past with infinite pity and resolved with all the fervor of his passion that when once Grushenka told him she loved him and would marry him, it would mean the beginning of a new Grushenka and a new Dmitri, free from every vice.
I whispered to him, ‘Why, she’s there, there, under the window; how is it you don’t see her?’ I said. ‘Bring her then, bring her.’ ‘She’s afraid,’ said I; ‘she was frightened at the noise, she’s hidden in the bushes; go and call to her yourself from the study.’ He ran to the window, put the candle in the window. ‘Grushenka,’ he cried, ‘Grushenka, are you here?’ Though he cried that, he didn’t want to lean out of the window, he didn’t want to move away from me, for he was panic-stricken; he was so frightened he didn’t dare to turn his back on me. ‘Why, here she is,’ said I. I went up to the window and leaned right out of it. ‘Here she is; she’s in the bush, laughing at you, don’t you see her?’ He suddenly believed it; he was all of a shake—he was awfully crazy about her—and he leaned right out of the window.
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