Brothers -- Fiction; Didactic fiction; Fathers and sons -- Fiction; Russia -- Social life and customs -- 1533-1917 -- Fiction
Alyosha thought it strange that his arrival should cause such
excitement. He was conducted however to the drawing-room at once. It
was a large room, elegantly and amply furnished, not at all in
provincial style. There were many sofas, lounges, settees, big and
little tables. There were pictures on the walls, vases and lamps on the
tables, masses of flowers, and even an aquarium in the window. It was
twilight and rather dark. Alyosha made out a silk mantle thrown down on
the sofa, where people had evidently just been sitting; and on a table
in front of the sofa were two unfinished cups of chocolate, cakes, a
glass saucer with blue raisins, and another with sweetmeats. Alyosha
saw that he had interrupted visitors, and frowned. But at that instant
the portière was raised, and with rapid, hurrying footsteps Katerina
Ivanovna came in, holding out both hands to Alyosha with a radiant
smile of delight. At the same instant a servant brought in two lighted
candles and set them on the table.
“Thank God! At last you have come too! I’ve been simply praying for you
all day! Sit down.”
Alyosha had been struck by Katerina Ivanovna’s beauty when, three weeks
before, Dmitri had first brought him, at Katerina Ivanovna’s special
request, to be introduced to her. There had been no conversation
between them at that interview, however. Supposing Alyosha to be very
shy, Katerina Ivanovna had talked all the time to Dmitri to spare him.
Alyosha had been silent, but he had seen a great deal very clearly. He
was struck by the imperiousness, proud ease, and self-confidence of the
haughty girl. And all that was certain, Alyosha felt that he was not
exaggerating it. He thought her great glowing black eyes were very
fine, especially with her pale, even rather sallow, longish face. But
in those eyes and in the lines of her exquisite lips there was
something with which his brother might well be passionately in love,
but which perhaps could not be loved for long. He expressed this
thought almost plainly to Dmitri when, after the visit, his brother
besought and insisted that he should not conceal his impressions on
seeing his betrothed.
“You’ll be happy with her, but perhaps—not tranquilly happy.”
“Quite so, brother. Such people remain always the same. They don’t
yield to fate. So you think I shan’t love her for ever.”
“No; perhaps you will love her for ever. But perhaps you won’t always
be happy with her.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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