“Say! Amazing, brother!” Rakitin rolled his eyes. “Well, one way or the other, vodka or sausage, it’s a brave thing, a fine thing, not to be missed! Let’s go!”
Alyosha silently got up from the ground and went after Rakitin.
“If your brother Vanechka could see it, wouldn’t he be surprised! By the way, your good brother Ivan Fyodorovich went off to Moscow this morning, did you know that?”
“Yes,” Alyosha said indifferently, and suddenly the image of his brother Dmitri flashed through his mind, but only flashed, and though it reminded him of something, some urgent business, which could not be put off even a minute longer, some duty, some terrible responsibility, this recollection did not make any impression on him, did not reach his heart, it flitted through his memory and was forgotten. But long afterwards Alyosha kept remembering it.
“Your dear brother Vanechka once pronounced me a ‘giftless liberal windbag.’ And you, too, could not help letting me know once that I was ‘dishonest’ ... Very well! Now we’ll see how gifted and honest you are” (Rakitin finished the phrase to himself, in a whisper). “Bah, listen!” he raised his voice again, “let’s bypass the monastery and take the path straight to town ... Hmm. By the way, I need to stop and see Khokhlakov. Imagine, I wrote her a report about all that happened, and just think, she replied at once with a note, in pencil (the lady simply loves writing notes), that she ‘would not have expected such
“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:
