Part Four · III

The main thing was that he had never, up to the very last minute, expected such a denouement. He had swaggered to the very last line, not even supposing it possible that two destitute and defenseless women could escape from his power. This conviction had been greatly helped by vanity and by that degree of self-confidence which is best called self-infatuation. Pyotr Petrovich, having made his way up from nothing, had become morbidly accustomed to admiring himself, valued his intelligence and abilities highly, and sometimes even, when alone, admired his face in the mirror. But more than anything in the world he loved and valued his money, obtained by labor and by every sort of means: it made him the equal of everything that was above him.

In bitterly reminding Dunya just now that he had resolved to take her despite the bad rumors about her, Pyotr Petrovich had spoken quite sincerely and had even felt a deep indignation at such “black ingratitude.” And yet, when he had proposed to Dunya, he had already been fully convinced of the absurdity of all that gossip, refuted publicly by Marfa Petrovna herself and long since dropped by the whole little town, which had warmly vindicated Dunya. Nor would he himself have denied now that he had known all this even then. And nonetheless he still valued highly his resolve to raise Dunya up to himself, and considered it a heroic deed. In speaking of it to Dunya just now, he had been speaking out his secret, cherished thought, which he had more than once admired, and he could not understand how others could fail to admire his heroic deed. When he had come to call on Raskolnikov that time, he had entered with the feeling of a benefactor preparing to reap the fruits and to hear some very sweet compliments. And now, certainly, going down the stairs, he considered himself offended and unappreciated in the highest degree.

As for Dunya, she was simply indispensable to him; to give her up was unthinkable for him. For a long time now, for several years already, he had dreamed voluptuously of marriage, but he kept saving up money and waiting. He had thought with rapture, in the deepest secret, of a well-behaved and poor girl (poor without fail), very young, very pretty, wellborn and educated, very much intimidated, one who had experienced a great deal of misfortune and had bowed down completely before him, one who all her life would consider him her salvation, would revere him, submit to him, and marvel at him, and only at him alone. How many scenes, how many delicious episodes had he created in his imagination on this seductive and playful theme, resting in quiet from his affairs! And now the dream of so many years was almost coming true: the beauty and education of Avdotya Romanovna had struck him; her helpless position had inflamed him to the extreme. Here was even something more than he had dreamed of: here was a girl who was proud, of strong character, virtuous, above him in upbringing and development (he felt this), and such a being would be slavishly grateful to him all her life for his heroic deed and would reverently efface herself before him, while he would rule boundlessly and absolutely!… As if on purpose, shortly before this, after long reflections and expectations, he had decided at last to change his career definitively and enter a wider sphere of activity, and at the same time, little by little, to pass into a higher society, too, of which he had long been thinking voluptuously… In a word, he had resolved to try Petersburg. He knew that through women one could gain “very, very” much. The charm of a lovely, virtuous, and educated woman could wonderfully adorn his path, draw people to him, create a halo… and now everything had collapsed! This present sudden, hideous rupture had struck him like a thunderclap. It was some kind of hideous joke, an absurdity! He had swaggered only a tiny bit; he had not even had time to speak his mind, he had simply been joking, got carried away, and it had ended so seriously! Finally, after all, he had already even come to love Dunya in his own way, he had already ruled over her in his dreams—and suddenly!… No! Tomorrow, tomorrow it all had to be restored, healed, set right, and above all—that arrogant milksop, that boy, who was the cause of everything, had to be destroyed. With a painful sensation he recalled, also somehow involuntarily, Razumikhin… but, however, he was soon reassured on that side: “As if that one, too, could be put on a level with him!” But the one he was really seriously afraid of—was Svidrigailov… In a word, there was a great deal of trouble ahead. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“No, I, I am the most to blame!” Dunechka was saying, embracing and kissing her mother. “I was tempted by his money, but I swear, brother—I never imagined he was such an unworthy man. If I had seen through him earlier, I would not have been tempted by anything! Don’t blame me, brother!”

“God has delivered us! God has delivered us!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna was muttering, but somehow unconsciously, as if she had not yet quite taken in everything that had happened.

Everyone was rejoicing; within five minutes they were even laughing. Only now and then Dunechka turned pale and knitted her brows, remembering what had happened. Pulcheria Alexandrovna could never have imagined that she too would be glad; the break with Luzhin had seemed to her, only that morning, a terrible calamity. But Razumikhin was in ecstasy. He did not dare express it fully, but he was trembling all over as if in a fever, as though a five-pood weight had fallen from his heart. Now he had the right to give them his whole life, to serve them… Why, what could he not do now! But, however, he drove further thoughts away still more timidly and was afraid of his own imagination. Only Raskolnikov went on sitting in the same place, almost sullen and even absent-minded. He, who had insisted most of all on getting rid of Luzhin, seemed now to be the least interested of all in what had happened. Dunya involuntarily thought that he was still very angry with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna kept glancing at him timidly.

“What did Svidrigailov tell you?” Dunya went up to him.

“Oh, yes, yes!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Raskolnikov raised his head:

“He wants without fail to make you a present of ten thousand roubles, and at the same time he declares a wish to see you once in my presence.”

“See her! Not for anything in the world!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “And how dare he offer her money!”

Then Raskolnikov related (rather dryly) his conversation with Svidrigailov, leaving out Marfa Petrovna’s ghosts so as not to go into superfluous matter, and feeling a disgust at starting any conversation whatever beyond what was most necessary.

“And what did you answer him?” asked Dunya.

“At first I said I would not pass anything on to you. Then he announced that he would seek a meeting himself, by every means. He assured me that his passion for you had been a whim and that he now feels nothing for you… He doesn’t want you to marry Luzhin… On the whole he talked incoherently.”

“How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he strike you?”

“I confess I don’t understand anything well. He offers ten thousand, and yet he said himself that he isn’t rich. He announces that he wants to go away somewhere, and ten minutes later forgets that he said so. Then suddenly he also says that he wants to get married and that a match is already being made for him… Of course he has his purposes, and most likely bad ones. But again it’s somehow strange to suppose that he would go about it so stupidly, if he had bad intentions toward you… I refused the money for you, of course, once and for all. On the whole he seemed very strange to me, and… even… with signs, as it were, of madness. But I may have been mistaken; it may simply be a humbug of some kind. Marfa Petrovna’s death seems to be making an impression on him…”

“Lord, rest her soul!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “Forever, forever I will pray to God for her! Well, what would become of us now, Dunya, without these three thousand! Lord, it’s as if they fell from heaven! Ah, Rodya, why, this morning we had only three roubles to our name, and Dunechka and I were only figuring how to pawn the watch somewhere as quickly as possible, just so as not to take from that man until he guessed for himself.”

Dunya was somehow much too struck by Svidrigailov’s offer. She kept standing there, lost in thought.

“He is planning something terrible!” she said almost in a whisper to herself, nearly shuddering.

Raskolnikov noticed this excessive fear.

“It seems I shall have to see him more than once again,” he said to Dunya.

“We’ll keep watch! I’ll track him down!” Razumikhin shouted energetically. “I won’t take my eyes off him! Rodya has given me leave. He told me himself earlier: ‘Take care of my sister.’ And will you give me leave, Avdotya Romanovna?”

Dunya smiled and held out her hand to him, but the worry did not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna kept glancing at her timidly; however, the three thousand were visibly calming her.

A quarter of an hour later they were all in the most animated conversation. Even Raskolnikov, though he did not talk, listened attentively for some time. Razumikhin was holding forth.

“And why, why should you leave!” he poured forth rapturously in an ecstatic speech. “And what will you do in that little town? The main thing is that here you are all together and need one another, and how you need one another—understand me! Well, at least for a while… And take me as a friend, as a partner, and I assure you we’ll start a splendid enterprise. Listen, I’ll explain it all to you in detail—the whole project! It was already flashing through my head this morning, before anything had happened… Here’s the thing: I have an uncle (I’ll introduce you; a most accommodating and most respectable little old fellow!), and this uncle has a capital of a thousand roubles, and he himself lives on a pension and doesn’t need it. For two years now he’s been pestering me to take this thousand from him and pay him six percent. I see the trick: he simply wants to help me; but last year I didn’t need it, and this year I was only waiting for him to arrive and had decided to take it. Then you’ll put in another thousand, out of your three, and that will be enough to begin with, and so we’ll join together. And what will we do?”

Here Razumikhin began to develop his project and talked at length about how almost all our booksellers and publishers know little about their goods and are therefore usually bad publishers, whereas decent editions generally pay for themselves and yield a profit, sometimes a considerable one. It was of publishing that Razumikhin had been dreaming, he who had been working for others for two years now and knew three European languages fairly well, in spite of having told Raskolnikov some six days before that he was “weak” in German, with the aim of persuading him to take half the translation work and three roubles in advance: he had been lying then, and Raskolnikov knew he was lying.

“Why, why should we let our own chance slip, when one of the most important means has turned up—our own money?” Razumikhin grew heated. “Of course, it takes a lot of work, but we will work, you, Avdotya Romanovna, I, Rodion… some editions give a fine profit nowadays! And the main foundation of the enterprise is that we will know what exactly ought to be translated. We will translate, and publish, and study, all together. Now I can be useful, because I have experience. For almost two years I’ve been poking around the publishers and I know all their ins and outs: it isn’t saints who make the pots, believe me! And why, why let the morsel go past your mouth! Why, I myself know, and keep secret, two or three works such that for the mere idea of translating and publishing them you could get a hundred roubles apiece for each book, and for one of them I wouldn’t take five hundred roubles for the idea. And what do you think, if I told anyone, he might very well doubt it, such blockheads they are! And as for the actual business end, printing shops, paper, sales, leave that to me! I know all the back alleys! We’ll begin little by little, we’ll get to something big, at least there’ll be something to feed ourselves with, and in any case we’ll get our money back.”

Dunya’s eyes were shining.

“I like what you are saying very much, Dmitry Prokofyich,” she said.

“I, of course, know nothing about it,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna responded, “maybe it’s good, but then again, God knows. It’s somehow new, unknown. Of course, we must stay here, at least for a while…”

She looked at Rodya.

“What do you think, brother?” said Dunya.

“I think he has a very good idea,” he answered. “Of course, one shouldn’t dream ahead of time about what form it will take, but five or six books really could be published with undoubted success. I myself know one work that would certainly sell. And as for his knowing how to run the business, there’s no doubt of that: he understands the thing… However, you’ll still have time to come to an agreement…”

“Hurrah!” shouted Razumikhin. “Now wait, there’s an apartment here, in this same building, from the same landlords. It’s separate, self-contained, it doesn’t connect with these rooms, and it’s furnished, the price is moderate, three little rooms. Take it for the time being. I’ll pawn the watch for you tomorrow and bring the money, and then everything will be arranged. And the main thing is that all three of you can live together, and Rodya with you… But where are you going, Rodya?”

“What, Rodya, you’re leaving already?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked, even in alarm.

“At a moment like this!” shouted Razumikhin.

Dunya was looking at her brother in incredulous surprise. He had his cap in his hands; he was getting ready to go out.

“Why, it’s as if you were burying me or saying good-bye forever,” he said somehow strangely.

He seemed to smile, but it was as if it were not a smile at all.

“And yet who knows, maybe this is the last time we’ll see each other,” he added inadvertently.

He had meant to think this to himself, but somehow it got spoken aloud of itself.

“But what is the matter with you!” cried his mother.

“Where are you going, Rodya?” Dunya asked somehow strangely.

“Just so, I really must,” he answered vaguely, as if hesitating over what he wanted to say. But in his pale face there was a sort of sharp resolve.

“I meant to say… coming here… I meant to tell you, Mama… and you, Dunya, that it would be better for us to part for a while. I don’t feel well, I’m not at peace… I’ll come later, I’ll come myself, when… it’s possible. I remember you and love you… Leave me! Leave me alone! I decided this, even before… I decided it for certain… Whatever happens to me, whether I perish or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether. It’s better… Don’t inquire about me. When it’s necessary, I’ll come myself or… I’ll call you. Perhaps everything will rise again!… But now, if you love me, give me up… Otherwise I’ll come to hate you, I feel it… Good-bye!”

“Lord!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Both mother and sister were terribly frightened; Razumikhin too.

“Rodya, Rodya! Make peace with us, let’s be as we were before!” the poor mother exclaimed.

He slowly turned toward the door and slowly walked out of the room. Dunya caught up with him.

“Brother! What are you doing to Mother!” she whispered, with a look that burned with indignation.

He looked at her heavily.

“It’s nothing, I’ll come, I’ll keep coming!” he muttered under his breath, as if not fully aware of what he meant to say, and went out of the room.

“Unfeeling, spiteful egoist!” cried Dunya.

“He is in-sane, not unfeeling! He’s mad! Can’t you see that? You’re the unfeeling one, after that!…” Razumikhin whispered hotly right into her ear, squeezing her hand hard.

“I’ll be right back!” he shouted, turning to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who had gone deathly pale, and ran out of the room.

Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the corridor.

“I knew you would run out,” he said. “Go back to them and be with them… Be with them tomorrow too… and always. I… maybe I’ll come… if I can. Good-bye!”

And without offering his hand, he walked away from him.

“But where are you going? What are you doing? What’s the matter with you? How can you do this!…” muttered Razumikhin, completely at a loss.

Raskolnikov stopped once more.

“Once and for all: never ask me about anything. I have nothing to answer you… Don’t come to see me. Maybe I’ll come here… Leave me, but them… don’t leave. Do you understand me?”

The corridor was dark; they were standing by the lamp. For a minute they looked at each other in silence. Razumikhin remembered that minute all his life. Raskolnikov’s burning and intent gaze seemed to grow stronger with every moment, penetrating into his soul, into his consciousness. Suddenly Razumikhin shuddered. Something strange seemed to pass between them… Some idea slipped through, like a hint; something terrible, hideous, and suddenly understood on both sides… Razumikhin turned as pale as a corpse.

“Do you understand now?…” Raskolnikov said suddenly, his face painfully contorted. “Go back, go to them,” he added suddenly, and, turning quickly, walked out of the house…

I will not describe now what went on that evening at Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s, how Razumikhin went back to them, how he calmed them, how he swore that Rodya must be given a rest in his illness, swore that Rodya would come without fail, would come every day, that he was very, very upset, that he must not be irritated; how he, Razumikhin, would keep watch over him, would get him a good doctor, the best, a whole consultation of doctors… In a word, from that evening on Razumikhin became a son and a brother to them.