III
The main point was that, until the very last moment, such an outcome was the last thing he’d ever expected. He’d blustered all the way to the end, never even recognizing the possibility that two penniless and defenceless women could escape from under his thumb. He was greatly assisted in this certainty by his vanity and that degree of self-confidence which may best be described as narcissism.
Pyotr Petrovich, a nobody made good, had a morbid habit of admiring himself, thought highly of his own intelligence and ability, and sometimes, when alone, even admired his own face in the mirror. But what he loved and valued most in the world was his own money, gained by labour and every means available: it made him the equal of whatever was above him.
Reminding Dunya just now, with bitterness, that he’d resolved to take her despite all the bad things said about her, Pyotr Petrovich had spoken with complete sincerity and even felt a deep indignation at such ‘rank ingratitude’.
And yet, when seeking Dunya’s hand in marriage, he’d had no doubt about the absurdity of all this tittle-tattle, which had been publicly refuted by Marfa Petrovna herself and which had long been dismissed by all the townsfolk, who defended Dunya ardently. In fact, even now he would not have denied having already known all this then. Yet still he continued to think highly of his determination to raise Dunya to his level and considered it something of a feat. In telling Dunya about this now, he was giving expression to a secret, cherished thought, which he had found himself admiring more than once; indeed, it was quite beyond him how anyone could fail to admire his exploit. Paying a visit to Raskolnikov that time, he had felt like a benefactor come
to reap his harvest and to hear some quite delicious compliments. Now, of course, walking down the stairs, he felt utterly offended and unappreciated.
He simply had to have Dunya; giving her up was unthinkable. He’d been dreaming fondly of marriage for several years already, but all he’d done was save up money and wait. In deepest secrecy, he’d thrilled at the thought of a young maiden who was virtuous and poor (the latter was essential), very young and very pretty, noble and educated, timid to the core, someone with endless misfortunes behind her, who’d prostrate herself before him, consider him her saviour her whole life long, revere him, submit to him, marvel at him – at him alone. How many scenes, how many delightful episodes had he created in his imagination on this alluring and frolicsome theme, while resting from his affairs! And now the dream of so many years had almost come true: Avdotya Romanovna’s beauty and education astonished him; her helpless plight excited him beyond measure. Reality was even outstripping his dreams: a proud girl of character and virtue, his superior (so he felt) in education and intellectual maturity – and just such a creature would be slavishly grateful to him all life long for his exploit and abase herself before him in veneration, and he would reign supreme without let or hindrance! . . . Only recently, after much deliberation, as if right on cue, he had finally decided to change career for good and enter a broader sphere of activity, in the hope of working his way up in society, something he’d long been thinking about with voluptuous pleasure . . . In a word, he had made up his mind to try his luck in Petersburg. He knew that it was ‘perfectly, perfectly’ possible to gain a great deal through women. The charms of an adorable, virtuous and educated woman could smooth his path quite remarkably, attract others to him, create an aura . . . and now the whole thing had collapsed! This sudden, hideous rift hit him like a thunderstroke. A hideous joke, that’s what it was. An
absurdity! He’d only blustered a little. He hadn’t even managed to say all he wanted to say. He’d merely joked, got carried away, and look how it had ended! Not to mention the fact that he’d even come to love Dunya after his own fashion; indeed, he was already reigning over her in his dreams – when suddenly! . . . No! The next day at the very latest all this had to be recovered, healed, put right and, above all – this arrogant mummy’s boy who was the cause of it all had to be destroyed. With a sickening sensation he was reminded, somewhat against his will, of Razumikhin . . . but he quickly reassured himself: ‘As if I have to measure myself against him as well!’ If there was one man he was seriously afraid of, it was not him, but Svidrigailov . . . In short, he had his hands full . . .
• • •
‘No, the person most to blame here is me, me!’ Dunechka was saying, hugging and kissing her mother. ‘I was tempted by his money, but I swear, brother, I never imagined him to be such an unworthy man. If only I’d seen through him earlier, I’d never have been tempted! Don’t blame me, brother!’ ‘God has saved us!’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna muttered, but almost unconsciously, as if she still hadn’t grasped what had just taken place.
Everyone rejoiced. Five minutes later they were even laughing. Only Dunechka would occasionally turn pale and knit her brow, recalling all that had happened. Pulkheria Alexandrovna could never have imagined that she, too, would be happy; only that morning a rift with Luzhin had still seemed a terrible catastrophe. But Razumikhin was ecstatic. He didn’t dare show it fully yet, but he was shaking all over as if in a fever, as if a two-hundred-pound
weight had been lifted from his heart. Now he had the right to give up his whole life to them, serve them . . . Anything was possible! But he was even warier now of thinking too far ahead, he was scared of his own imaginings.
Raskolnikov, alone, was still sitting in the same place, almost sullen and even distracted. He, who had insisted more than anyone on getting rid of Luzhin, now seemed the least interested in what had occurred. Dunya couldn’t help feeling he was still very angry with her, while Pulkheria Alexandrovna studied him timidly. ‘So what did Svidrigailov say to you?’ Dunya asked, walking over to him. ‘Oh yes, yes!’ cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna.
Raskolnikov lifted his head: ‘He’s determined to give you ten thousand roubles and expresses his desire to see you once, in my presence.’ ‘See you? Not for the world!’ cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘And how dare he offer her money?’ Next, Raskolnikov related (rather stiffly) his conversation with Svidrigailov, omitting Marfa Petrovna’s ghosts so as to avoid digression and feeling revolted by the thought of any
but the most essential conversation. ‘So what did you reply?’ asked Dunya. ‘First, I said I wouldn’t pass any of this on to you. Then he announced he would seek a meeting himself by every means at his disposal. He assured me that his passion for you was merely a whim and that he feels nothing for you now . . . He doesn’t want you to marry Luzhin . . . In general, he wasn’t all that coherent.’ ‘What do you make of him, Rodya? How did he seem to you?’ ‘Frankly, none of it makes much sense to me. He’s offering ten thousand, but says he’s not rich. Declares a desire to take off somewhere or other, but forgets having said it ten minutes later. Then he suddenly says he wants to get married and that a bride’s already being arranged . . .
He’s got his reasons, of course, most likely bad ones. But then again, it’s rather strange to think of him going about it all so stupidly if he has bad intentions towards you . . .
Needless to say, I refused the money on your behalf, once and for all. On the whole he struck me as very strange and even . . . in some respects . . . almost insane. But I may well be mistaken, and it might all just be some kind of hoax.
Marfa Petrovna’s death is affecting him, it seems . . .’ ‘God rest her soul!’ exclaimed Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘I shall never, ever cease praying for her! I mean, what would have become of us now, Dunya, without these three thousand? Good grief – they just fell from the sky! Oh, Rodya, this morning Dunechka and I only had three roubles between us and our only hope was to hurry up and pawn the watch somewhere, so as not to have to ask anything from that man until he worked it out for himself.’ Dunya seemed almost stunned by Svidrigailov’s proposal.
She stood where she was, plunged in thought. ‘He’s planning something, something horrid!’ she said almost under her breath, all but shuddering.
Raskolnikov noticed her immoderate fear. ‘That won’t be the last I see of him, I suppose,’ he told Dunya. ‘We’ll follow him! I’ll track him down!’ shouted Razumikhin with vigour. ‘I won’t take my eyes off him!
Rodya has allowed me to. “Protect my sister!” he told me just now. But will you allow me, Avdotya Romanovna?’ Dunya smiled and held out her hand to him, but her face remained troubled. Pulkheria Alexandrovna stole timid glances at her; she was clearly comforted, though, by the three thousand roubles.
A quarter of an hour later the conversation was at its height. For a while even Raskolnikov, though taking no part, listened attentively. Razumikhin was holding forth, the words pouring out of him with rapturous emotion.
‘Why on earth would you leave? And what will you find to do in that provincial town? You’re all here together, that’s the main thing, and you all need each other, goodness knows how badly – can’t you see? For a while, at least . . .
Take me as your friend, your partner, and I assure you we’ll start an excellent business! Let me set it all out to you in detail – the whole plan! Even this morning, before any of this happened, it was taking shape in my head . . . Here it is: I have an uncle (I’ll introduce you – he’s an exceedingly obliging and exceedingly respectable old so-and-so) and this uncle of mine has a capital of a thousand roubles – which he doesn’t need, as he lives off his pension. This is the second year he’s been badgering me to take this thousand off him and pay him six per cent interest. I won’t be fooled: he just wants to help me. Last year I had no need of it, but this year I was just waiting for him to arrive and made up my mind to take it. If you put in another thousand, from your three, that’s enough to begin with, enough for us to join forces. And what will we be doing exactly?’ Here, Razumikhin started setting out his plan, explaining at great length how ignorant nearly all our booksellers and publishers are about their goods, which is why they usually make bad publishers, while decent editions pay their way and even turn a profit, sometimes a quite considerable one.
A career in publishing was Razumikhin’s dream. He’d already spent two years working for other people and was competent in three European languages, despite the fact that six days or so before he tried telling Raskolnikov that his German was ‘hopeless’, in the hope of persuading him to accept half a translating job and three roubles up front; he was lying then, and Raskolnikov knew it. ‘Why, I ask you, should we not seize our chance, now that we have that most essential thing – our own money?’ Razumikhin went on in the greatest excitement. ‘Of course, there’s lots to be done, but we’ll work hard: you, Avdotya Romanovna, me, Rodion . . . nowadays, some books turn a
splendid profit! And we’ll base our business on the fact that we know exactly what needs translating. We’ll translate and publish and study, all at the same time. With some experience behind me, I can actually make myself useful now. I’ve been running from one publisher to another for nigh on two years and I know how they work: they’re no better than the rest of us, believe you me! And why look a gift horse in the mouth? I already have two or three books up my sleeve: the very thought of translating them is worth a hundred roubles per book, and there’s one idea I wouldn’t part with if I was offered five hundred. But even if I did tell someone, they’d probably think twice, the idiots!
And as for the practical side of things – the printers, paper, sales – you can leave that to me! I know all the ins and outs! We’ll start small, we’ll grow big – we won’t go hungry, that’s for sure, and at the very least we’ll break even.’ Dunya’s eyes were shining. ‘I like what you say very much, Dmitry Prokofich,’ she remarked. ‘I don’t know the first thing about it, of course,’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna put in. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing, although, who knows? It’s all a bit new, a bit uncertain. Of course, we do have to stay on here, at least for a while . . .’ She looked at Rodya. ‘What do you think, brother?’ said Dunya. ‘I think he’s onto a very good thing,’ he replied. ‘It’s much too early to be dreaming of a firm, of course, but five or six books could indeed be published with certain success. I myself know one book that would definitely be suitable. And as for his ability to make it work, there’s little doubt about that either: he knows what he’s about . . .
Anyway, you’ll have plenty of time to arrange everything . . .’ ‘Hurrah!’ shouted Razumikhin. ‘Now wait: there’s an apartment here, in this very building, the very same landlords. It’s separate and doesn’t connect with this part.
It’s furnished, moderately priced, three rooms. You should move in there for the time being. I’ll pawn the watch for you tomorrow and bring the money, and the rest will take care of itself. The main thing is, the three of you can all live together, with Rodya . . . But where are you off to, Rodya?’ ‘You’re not leaving already, Rodya, are you?’ asked
Pulkheria Alexandrovna in alarm. ‘At such a moment!’ shouted Razumikhin.
Dunya looked at her brother with mistrust and amazement. His cap was in his hand; he was ready to leave. ‘Anyone would think you were burying me or saying goodbye for good,’ he said, rather strangely.
He seemed to smile, though a smile was the last thing it seemed. ‘But then – who knows? – perhaps we are seeing each other for the last time,’ he added, just like that.
He meant to keep this thought to himself, but somehow it came out of its own accord. ‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ his mother shrieked. ‘Where are you going, Rodya?’ asked Dunya, rather strangely. ‘I just have to,’ came his vague reply, as if he were hesitating about what he wanted to say. But his pale face betrayed a keen resolve. ‘I wanted to say . . . coming over here . . . I wanted to tell you, Mama . . . and you, Dunya, that it would be best for us to be apart for a while. I don’t feel well, I’m not calm . . . I’ll come later, I’ll come myself, when . . . I can. You’re in my thoughts and I love you . . .
Now leave me! Leave me alone! That’s what I decided, even before . . . I was quite sure about it . . . Whatever happens to me, whether I sink or swim, I want to be alone.
Forget about me. It’s for the best . . . Don’t ask around about me. When the moment’s right, I’ll come myself or . . .
I’ll call for you. Perhaps everything will rise again! . . . But
now, if you love me, give me up . . . Or else I’ll start hating you, I can feel it . . . Goodbye!’ ‘Lord!’ shrieked Pulkheria Alexandrovna.
Mother and sister were horrified; Razumikhin, too. ‘Rodya! Rodya! Make peace with us, we’ll go back to how we were!’ his poor mother exclaimed.
He turned slowly towards the door and walked slowly out of the room. Dunya caught up with him. ‘Brother! What are you doing to your mother?’ she whispered, eyes burning with indignation.
He gave her a heavy look. ‘It’s all right. I’ll come. I’ll visit!’ he mumbled under his breath, as if not fully aware of what he wanted to say, and left the room. ‘Callous, spiteful egoist!’ shrieked Dunya. ‘He’s mad, m-a-d, not callous! He’s insane! Can’t you see that? Then you’re the callous one!’ Razumikhin whispered hotly into her ear, squeezing her hand. ‘I’ll be right back!’ he shouted, turning to Pulkheria Alexandrovna, who was frozen to the spot, and ran out of the room.
Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the corridor. ‘I knew you’d come running out,’ he said. ‘Go back to them and be with them . . . Be with them tomorrow, too . . . and always. I . . . might come . . . if I can. Goodbye!’ And, without offering his hand, he walked away. ‘But where are you going? Why? What’s wrong? How can you?’ muttered Razumikhin, utterly lost.
Raskolnikov stopped once more. ‘For the last time: never ask me about anything. I’ve no answers to give you . . . Don’t come to see me. Perhaps I really will come back here . . . Leave me and . . .don’t leave them. Understood?’ It was dark in the corridor; they were standing by a lamp. For a minute or so they looked at each other without speaking. Razumikhin remembered this minute for the rest
of his life. Raskolnikov’s burning stare seemed to grow more intense by the second, burrowing into his soul, his mind. Suddenly, Razumikhin shuddered. Something strange seemed to pass between them . . . An idea slipped out, almost a hint; something horrible, something hideous, suddenly grasped on both sides . . . Razumikhin turned white as a corpse. ‘Understand now?’ said Raskolnikov suddenly, his features painfully twisted. ‘Off you go, back to them,’ he added and, with a swift turn, walked out of the building . . .
I won’t start describing what happened that evening in Pulkheria Alexandrovna’s room: how Razumikhin came back, how he calmed them down, how he swore that Rodya was sick and needed rest, swore that Rodya was certain to come, would come every day, that he was very, very distressed, that it wouldn’t do to aggravate him; how he, Razumikhin, would keep an eye on him, find him a good doctor, the very best, an entire council . . . In short, from that evening on Razumikhin became their son and their brother.
