II
It was almost eight already; both men were in a hurry to get over to Bakaleyev’s rooms before Luzhin arrived. ‘So who was that?’ asked Razumikhin as soon as they were outside. ‘Svidrigailov, the landowner at whose home my sister was insulted while employed as their governess. Pestered with his attentions, she left, chased out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. The same Marfa Petrovna who later begged her forgiveness and has now suddenly died. It was her we were talking about earlier. I don’t know why, but I’m very scared of this man. He arrived straight after his wife’s funeral.
He’s very strange and he’s set on something . . . It’s as if he knows something . . . Dunya must be protected from him . . . that’s what I wanted to tell you, do you hear?’ ‘Protected! What could he ever do to her, to Avdotya Romanovna? Well, I’m grateful to you, Rodya, for speaking to me like this . . . We’ll protect her, no fear! . . . Where
does he live?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Why didn’t you ask? What a pity! Never mind, I’ll find out!’ ‘Did you see him?’ asked Raskolnikov after a pause. ‘Yes, I took good note of him.’ ‘You’re sure you saw him? Saw him clearly?’ Raskolnikov persisted. ‘I’m sure. I remember him so clearly I could pick him out in a crowd – I have a memory for faces.’ They were silent again. ‘H’m . . . just as well . . . ,’ muttered Raskolnikov. ‘Because, you know . . . the thought occurred to me . . . and I still can’t help feeling . . . that this might be a fantasy.’
‘Meaning? I don’t quite follow.’ ‘Here you all are,’ Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile, ‘saying I’m mad. Well, just now I had the impression that perhaps I really am insane and what I
saw was only a phantom!’ ‘What are you on about?’ ‘Who knows? Maybe I really am mad, and maybe everything that’s happened during all these days was just my imagination . . .’ ‘Oh, Rodya! They’ve upset you again! . . . But what did he say? What was he after?’ Raskolnikov didn’t reply. Razumikhin thought for a moment. ‘Well, then, here’s my report,’ he began. ‘I called by, you were sleeping. Then we had lunch, then I went to see Porfiry. Zametov’s still there. I wanted to broach the subject and couldn’t. I just couldn’t get going. It’s as if they don’t understand and can’t understand, but they’re not in the slightest embarrassed. I led Porfiry over to the window, but again – nothing doing; he looks away, I look away.
Finally, I lifted my fist to his face and said I’d beat him to a pulp, in the family spirit. He just looked at me. I spat, walked out, and that’s that. All very stupid. Not a word between me and Zametov. But listen: I thought I’d botched it all up, but going down the stairs a certain thought occurred to me – or rather, hit me: why are the two of us going to so much trouble? If you were in danger or anything of the kind, then fine. But why should you care?
You’re nothing to do with it, so to hell with them! We’ll have plenty of time to make fun of them later – in fact, in your shoes I’d try hoaxing them, too. Think how ashamed they’ll be afterwards! To hell with them! We can give them a good drubbing later, but for now – let’s laugh!’ ‘Yes, absolutely!’ replied Raskolnikov. ‘And what will you say tomorrow?’ he wondered to himself. How strange that the question ‘What will Razumikhin think when he finds
out?’ had never once occurred to him. Thinking this, Raskolnikov gave him a long hard look. Razumikhin’s report about visiting Porfiry was of scant interest to him: so much had been and gone since then!
In the corridor they ran into Luzhin: he’d arrived at eight o’clock sharp and was looking for the room, so all three walked in together, but without exchanging so much as a glance or a bow. The young men went ahead, while Pyotr Petrovich thought it good manners to dawdle a bit in the entrance hall while taking off his coat. Pulkheria Alexandrovna immediately came out to meet him on the threshold. Dunya greeted her brother.
Entering, Pyotr Petrovich bowed to the ladies courteously enough, though with redoubled gravity. He continued to look somewhat disconcerted. Pulkheria Alexandrovna, who also seemed embarrassed, hurriedly sat everyone down at an oval table on which a hot samovar was waiting. Dunya and Luzhin took their places opposite each other at the two ends of the table. Razumikhin and Raskolnikov ended up opposite Pulkheria Alexandrovna – Razumikhin closer to Luzhin, and Raskolnikov next to his sister.
There was a momentary silence. Pyotr Petrovich slowly took out a cambric handkerchief reeking of perfume and blew his nose with the air of a virtuous man who has suffered a wound to his pride and who, moreover, is determined to receive an explanation. While standing in the entrance hall the thought had even occurred to him to keep his coat on and leave, thereby punishing and shaming both ladies with an impressive display of severity. But he didn’t go through with it. Besides, this was a man who disliked uncertainty, and clarification was certainly required here: they can’t have flouted his order for no reason, so he was better off finding out first; there would always be time to punish them later – it was all in his hands.
‘I trust you had a satisfactory journey?’ he asked
Pulkheria Alexandrovna stiffly. ‘Yes, Pyotr Petrovich, God be praised.’ ‘Very pleased to hear it, ma’am. And Avdotya Romanovna is not too weary, either?’ ‘I’m young and strong, I don’t tire easily – but it was terribly hard for Mama,’ replied Dunya. ‘Our national railways, alas, are very extensive. How great is so-called “Mother Russia” . . . For my part, I was simply unable, with the best will in the world, to meet you off the train yesterday. I trust, however, that everything passed off smoothly?’ ‘Far from it, Pyotr Petrovich – we were at a low ebb,’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare in a very particular voice, ‘and if God Himself, it seems, had not sent us Dmitry Prokofich yesterday, then I don’t know what would have become of us. Here he is, Dmitry Prokofich Razumikhin,’ she added, introducing him to Luzhin. ‘Why, I had the pleasure . . . yesterday,’ muttered Luzhin, with a hostile glance at Razumikhin; then he frowned and fell silent. Pyotr Petrovich, one could safely say, belonged to that category of men who appear exceptionally courteous in society and lay special claim to courtesy, but who, the moment they are crossed, instantly lose all their powers and begin to look more like sacks of flour than happy-go- lucky types who are the soul of any gathering. Everyone fell silent again: Raskolnikov stubbornly refused to speak, Avdotya Romanovna didn’t wish to break the silence too soon, Razumikhin had nothing to say, and Pulkheria Alexandrovna began to fret. ‘Marfa Petrovna has died – have you heard?’ she began, resorting to her trump card. ‘How could I not, ma’am? I was among the first to know and, in fact, I am here to tell you that Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov, directly after the funeral of his spouse, departed with all due haste for Petersburg. Thus, at any
rate, according to the very reliable information at my disposal.’ ‘For Petersburg? Here?’ Dunechka asked in alarm, exchanging glances with her mother. ‘Quite so, ma’am, and no doubt with some purpose, taking into account the hasty nature of his departure and, more generally, the preceding circumstances.’ ‘Good Lord! Won’t he leave Dunechka in peace here, either?’ shrieked Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘It seems to me that there is no particular cause for alarm, neither for you nor for Avdotya Romanovna, assuming, of course, that you yourselves do not wish to enter into any kind of relations with him. For my part, I am keeping a close eye on the situation, and trying to find out where he is staying . . .’ ‘Oh, Pyotr Petrovich, you’ll never believe what a fright you’ve just given me!’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna went on. ‘I’ve only ever seen him twice and I found him dreadful, dreadful! I’m sure he was the cause of the late Marfa Petrovna’s death.’ ‘It’s impossible to say. I have reliable information at my disposal. I don’t deny that he may have expedited the course of events through, as it were, the moral influence of his offensive actions; but as far as the individual’s conduct and, more generally, moral profile are concerned, I agree with you. Whether or not he is rich and what exactly Marfa Petrovna has left him, I do not know; I will be apprised of this in the very nearest future; but it goes without saying that here, in Petersburg, with even the most modest funds at his disposal, he will immediately resume his old habits.
Of all his kind he is the most depraved and the most far gone in vice! I have significant grounds for assuming that Marfa Petrovna, who had the misfortune of loving him so and paying off his debts eight years ago, was of service to him in a further respect as well: it was solely thanks to her efforts and sacrifices that a criminal case was snuffed out
at birth, one with elements of bestial and, as it were, quite fantastical villainy, for which he could have perfectly, perfectly easily have taken a long hike to Siberia. That’s the kind of man he is, if you care to know.’ ‘Good Lord!’ cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov was listening attentively. ‘Do you really have reliable information about him?’ asked Dunya, in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘I am merely repeating what I heard, in confidence, from the late Marfa Petrovna. It should be noted that from a legal standpoint the case is murky in the extreme. There was – and, I believe, still is – a certain Mrs Resslich living here, a foreigner and, what’s worse, a petty moneylender who has other irons in the fire as well. Mr Svidrigailov had long been on the most intimate and mysterious terms with this Resslich woman. She had a distant relative living with her, a niece, I believe, a deaf-and-dumb girl of fifteen or even fourteen, whom Resslich loathed beyond reason and reproached for every crumb; she even beat her brutally.
One day the girl was found hanging in the loft. The verdict: suicide. The usual procedure was followed and the case ended there, but subsequently a report was submitted to the effect that the child had been . . . cruelly abused by Svidrigailov. True, it was all very murky: the report came from another German, a notorious woman with scant credibility, and in the end even that went missing, thanks to Marfa Petrovna’s efforts and money. Rumour was as far as it went. Still, the rumour was highly indicative. No doubt, Avdotya Romanovna, you heard another story, too, while you were there, about a certain Filipp who was tortured to death, six years or so ago, back in the days of serfdom.’ ‘On the contrary, I heard that this Filipp hanged himself.’ ‘Quite so, miss, but it was Mr Svidrigailov’s continuous system of persecution and punishment which forced him, or rather disposed him, to take his life.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ replied Dunya, coldly. ‘I merely heard some very strange story about this Filipp being some kind of hypochondriac, a home-grown philosopher – “too much reading”, people said – and that he hanged himself more from being teased than from Mr Svidrigailov’s beatings. From what I saw, he treated people rather well, and people even liked him, although they did blame him for Filipp’s death.’ ‘I see, Avdotya Romanovna, that you are suddenly disposed to excuse him,’ Luzhin remarked, twisting his mouth into an ambiguous smile. ‘He is indeed a cunning and charming man where ladies are concerned, as the lamentable example of Marfa Petrovna, who died so strangely, attests. I merely wished to offer you and your mama my advice, in view of his latest and no doubt imminent efforts. For myself, I am quite certain that this man is destined for debtor’s prison once more. Marfa Petrovna never had the slightest intention of providing him with any security, having the children in mind, and if she did leave him anything, then only what was absolutely essential, ephemeral and of little value, hardly enough to last a man of his habits for even a year.’ ‘Pyotr Petrovich, please,’ said Dunya, ‘let’s speak no more about Mr Svidrigailov. It depresses me.’ ‘He came to see me just now,’ said Raskolnikov suddenly, breaking his silence for the first time.
Cries went up on all sides; everyone turned towards him.
Even Pyotr Petrovich was on edge. ‘An hour and a half or so ago, when I was sleeping, he came in, woke me up and introduced himself,’ Raskolnikov went on. ‘He was quite relaxed and cheerful, and very optimistic about the two of us becoming close. Incidentally, he’s desperate to see you, Dunya, and asked me to be the intermediary at this meeting. He wants to make you an offer and told me what it is. What’s more, Dunya, he gave me the most definite assurance that a week before she died
Marfa Petrovna left you three thousand roubles in her will, and that you can receive this money in the very nearest future.’ ‘God be praised!’ cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna, making the sign of the cross. ‘Pray for her, Dunya, pray!’ ‘That is indeed the case,’ Luzhin let slip. ‘And what else?’ Dunechka pressed him. ‘Next he said that he himself is not rich and that the whole estate would go to his children, who are with their aunt. Next, that he’s staying somewhere not far from here, but where – I don’t know, didn’t ask . . .’ ‘But what is it that he wants to offer Dunechka, what?’ asked Pulkheria Alexandrovna, frightened to death. ‘Did he
tell you?’
‘Yes, he did.’ ‘And?’ ‘I’ll tell you later.’ Raskolnikov fell silent and turned his attention to his tea.
Pyotr Petrovich took out his watch and checked it. ‘I have urgent business to attend to, so I won’t get in your way,’ he added, looking somewhat piqued, and began getting up from his chair. ‘Stay, Pyotr Petrovich,’ said Dunya, ‘after all, you were intending to spend the evening with us. Besides, you wrote to say you had something you wished to discuss with Mama.’ ‘Quite so, Avdotya Romanovna,’ said Pyotr Petrovich in an imposing tone, sitting back down, though still holding on to his hat. ‘I did indeed have matters to discuss with you, and with your much-esteemed mama, even some of the highest importance. But just as your brother is unable to discuss in my presence certain of Mr Svidrigailov’s proposals, so too am I unwilling and unable to discuss . . . in the presence of others . . . certain matters of the highest, highest importance. Besides, my fundamental and most earnest request was not heeded . . .’
Looking most aggrieved, Luzhin lapsed into dignified silence. ‘Your request that my brother not attend our meeting has not been heeded solely at my insistence,’ said Dunya. ‘You wrote that my brother had insulted you. I believe that this must be cleared up immediately and you should make your peace. And if Rodya really did insult you, then heshould andshall apologize.’ This was all the encouragement Pyotr Petrovich needed. ‘There are certain insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which, with the best will in the world, cannot be forgotten. There is always a mark which it is too dangerous to overstep, for, once overstepped, there can be no return.’ ‘That’s not what I was getting at, Pyotr Petrovich,’ Dunya interrupted a little impatiently. ‘Please understand that our whole future now depends on whether or not all this can be cleared up and settled as quickly as possible. I am telling you bluntly, from the outset, that I can take no other view of the matter, and if you prize me at all, then, however hard it may be, this entire episode must end today. I repeat: if my brother is to blame, he will ask your forgiveness.’ ‘I am astonished to hear you frame the question in this way, Avdotya Romanovna,’ Luzhin replied, his irritation mounting with every word. ‘While valuing and, as it were, adoring you, I am perfectly, perfectly capable of not liking a member of your family. Aspiring to the happiness of your hand, I am unable at one and the same time to take upon myself incompatible obligations . . .’ ‘Oh, enough of all this touchiness, Pyotr Petrovich,’ Dunya interrupted hotly, ‘and be that intelligent and noble man I always considered – and still wish to consider – you to be. I made you a great promise – I am your bride. So trust me in this matter and trust that I shall be able to judge without bias. My role as arbiter is as much of a surprise to my brother as it is to you. When I asked him today, after receiving your letter, to be sure to attend our
meeting, I said nothing of my intentions. Please understand that if you do not make your peace I will have to choose between you: either you or him. That is how the question stands, on both his side and yours. I do not wish to make the wrong choice and must not do so. For you I must break off with my brother; for my brother I must break off with you. Now is my chance to find out for sure: is he a brother to me? And as for you: am I dear to you? Do you value me?
Are you a husband to me?’ ‘Avdotya Romanovna,’ said Luzhin, taken aback, ‘your words are too rich in meaning, I would even say hurtful, in view of the position I am honoured to hold in relation to you. Quite aside from the hurtful and strange decision to put me on a level with . . . an arrogant youth, your words permit the possibility of your breaking the promise you gave me. “Either you or him,” you say, thereby showing me how little I mean to you . . . I can hardly allow this in view of the relations and . . . obligations that exist between us.’ ‘What?’ flared Dunya. ‘I place your interests alongside everything I have ever held dearest, everything that my whole life has consisted of until now, and you suddenly take offence because I hold you toocheap!’ Raskolnikov said nothing and sneered; Razumikhin’s whole body jerked. But Pyotr Petrovich did not accept the criticism; on the contrary, he became ever more captious and irritable, almost as if he’d begun to enjoy it. ‘Love for one’s future partner in life, for one’s husband, should exceed love for one’s brother,’ he sententiously began, ‘and in any case, I cannot be put on the same level . . . Even though I previously insisted that I did not wish to say what I have come to say in the presence of your brother, and could not do so, nevertheless I now intend to turn to your much-esteemed mother for an essential clarification of one highly fundamental and, to me, offensive point. Your son,’ he said, turning to Pulkheria Alexandrovna, ‘yesterday, in the presence of Mr Rassudkin
(is that your surname? Sorry, it seems to have slipped my 10 mind)’ – he said to Razumikhinwith a courteous bow – ‘offended me by distorting a thought I once shared with you during a private conversation over coffee: namely, that marriage to a poor girl who has already tasted life’s woes is, to my mind, of greater profit from the conjugal point of view than marriage to one who has only tasted plenty, being of greater benefit to morality. Your son purposely exaggerated my meaning to the point of absurdity, charging me with malicious intentions and, as far as I can see, basing his remarks on your own correspondence. I will consider myself happy, Pulkheria Alexandrovna, if you can disabuse me to the contrary and thus go some way to reassuring me. So tell me: what were the exact terms in which you conveyed my words in your letter to Rodion Romanovich?’ ‘I don’t remember,’ came Pulkheria Alexandrovna’s faltering reply. ‘I conveyed them as I understood them. I don’t know how Rodya conveyed them to you . . . Perhaps he did exaggerate something.’ ‘He couldn’t have exaggerated anything without your prompting.’ ‘Pyotr Petrovich,’ answered Pulkheria Alexandrovna, ‘the very fact that we arehere is proof that Dunya and I did not
take your words so amiss.’
‘Well said, dear Mama!’ remarked Dunya. ‘So this is my fault, too?’ ‘Now listen, Pyotr Petrovich, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself wrote an untruth about him in your letter earlier,’ added an emboldened Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘I don’t recall writing any untruths, ma’am.’ ‘You wrote,’ said Raskolnikov sharply, without turning towards Luzhin, ‘that yesterday I gave the money away not to the widow of the man who’d been trampled, which was what actually happened, but to his daughter (whom I’d
never seen before). You wrote that to set me at odds with my family, which is why you added those loathsome words about the behaviour of a girl you do not know. It’s all just gossip, despicable gossip.’ ‘Excuse me, sir,’ replied Luzhin, shaking with fury, ‘the sole reason I enlarged upon your qualities and actions was to satisfy thereby the request of your sister and mama to describe for them the state in which I found you and the impression you made on me. As regards the aforementioned part of my letter, I challenge you to find in it a single unfair sentence – did you not spend all the money? And in that family, however unfortunate, were there not unworthy persons?’ ‘You yourself, for all your qualities, are not worth the little finger of the unfortunate girl at whom you are casting stones.’ ‘So you’d dare bring her into the company of your mother and sister, I suppose?’ ‘I’ve already done so, if you must know. Today I sat her
down next to Mama and Dunya.’ ‘Rodya!’ cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna.
Dunechka reddened; Razumikhin knit his brows. Luzhin gave a sneering, supercilious smile. ‘You may judge for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,’ he said, ‘whether there is any scope for agreement here. I trust that this business is now finished and clarified, once and for all. I shall make myself scarce so as not to impede the further enjoyment of your family gathering and the sharing of secrets.’ (He rose from his chair and took his hat.) ‘But before I leave, I venture to remark that I hope to be spared any more such meetings and, as it were, further compromise. My request is addressed above all to you, much-esteemed Pulkheria Alexandrovna, especially as my letter was also addressed to you and not to any other party.’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna was somewhat offended.
‘It seems that you want us completely under your thumb, Pyotr Petrovich. Dunya told you the reason why your wish was not heeded: she acted with the best intentions. And you write to me as if you were giving orders. Must we really consider your every wish an order? If you ask me, you ought to be going out of your way to be sensitive and indulgent towards us, seeing that we’ve trusted you and dropped everything to come here – we’re almost under your thumb as it is.’ ‘That is not entirely fair, Pulkheria Alexandrovna, and especially at the present moment, following the announcement of the three thousand left by Marfa Petrovna – which appears to have been most timely, to judge by the new tone you’ve taken towards me,’ he added with venom. ‘To judge by this remark, one might indeed assume that you were counting on our helplessness,’ snapped Dunya. ‘That, at any rate, is something I can no longer count on, and I certainly do not wish to impede the communication of the secret proposals with which Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov has entrusted your brother and which, I see, are of fundamental and, perhaps, highly agreeable significance to you.’ ‘Good grief!’ shrieked Pulkheria Alexandrovna.
Razumikhin just couldn’t sit still. ‘And you’re not ashamed now, sister?’ asked Raskolnikov. ‘I am, Rodya,’ said Dunya. ‘Pyotr Petrovich, get out!’ She was white with rage.
Such a conclusion, it seems, was the last thing Pyotr Petrovich had expected. He had too much confidence in himself, in his power and in the helplessness of his victims.
He could not believe it even now. He turned pale and his lips began to tremble. ‘Avdotya Romanovna, if I leave this room now, with these words ringing in my ears, then make no mistake: I will never come back. So think about it! I mean what I say.’
‘The cheek!’ cried Dunya, swiftly rising from her seat. ‘As if I want you to come back!’ ‘What? Well, well, we-e-ell!’ cried Luzhin, unable to believe, until the very last moment, that such an outcome was possible, and losing his thread entirely as a result. ‘Well, well, miss! But you know, Avdotya Romanovna, I may have something to say about this.’ ‘What right have you to speak to her like that?’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna burst in. ‘And what on earth can you have to say about it? What are these rights of yours? Do you really think I will give my Dunya to a man like you? Get out and don’t come back! We ourselves are to blame for going along with this wrongful business, I more than anyone . . .’ ‘Nevertheless, Pulkheria Alexandrovna,’ raged Luzhin, ‘you have bound me with a promise you now renounce . . . not to mention . . . not to mention the fact that I have incurred, as it were, certain expenses . . .’ This final reproof was so characteristic of Pyotr Petrovich that Raskolnikov, who’d gone pale with rage and with the effort of restraining himself, suddenly roared with laughter.
But Pulkheria Alexandrovna was beside herself: ‘Expenses? And what would they be? You don’t mean our trunk, I hope? You got the conductor to take it for free!
Good Lord – we bound you, did we? Come to your senses, Pyotr Petrovich – you bound us hand and foot, not the other way round!’ ‘Enough, dear Mama, enough!’ pleaded Avdotya Romanovna. ‘Pyotr Petrovich, be so good as to leave!’ ‘I’m leaving, young lady, but just one last thing!’ he said, losing almost all self-control. ‘Your mama seems to have quite forgotten that I chose you, as it were, after the rumours concerning your reputation had circulated around town and spread through every house in the neighbourhood. In disregarding public opinion for your sake and restoring your reputation, I surely, surely could have entertained every hope of compensation and even
demanded your gratitude . . . Only now have my eyes been opened! I see myself that I may have acted all too hastily – all too hastily – in disregarding the voice of society . . .’ ‘Is he mad?’ shouted Razumikhin, leaping from his chair and preparing to take matters into his own hands. ‘You are a despicable and evil man!’ said Dunya. ‘Silence! Stay right there!’ yelled Raskolnikov, restraining Razumikhin; then, walking right up to Luzhin: ‘Kindly get out!’ he said quietly and distinctly. ‘And not another word, or else . . .’ Pyotr Petrovich looked at him for a few seconds, his face white and twisted with fury, then turned and left, and it hardly needs saying that few men can ever have carried away so much spite and hatred in their hearts as this man bore towards Raskolnikov. He blamed him and him alone for everything. And, remarkably enough, even as he was going down the stairs he still imagined that this whole business was by no means lost and, as far as the ladies were concerned, could still ‘perfectly, perfectly well’ be saved.
