بخش 04 - فصل 02

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS NEARLY EIGHT o’clock. The two young men hurried to Bakaleyev’s, to arrive before Luzhin.

“Who was that?” asked Razumikhin, as soon as they were in the street.

“It was Svidrigailov, that landowner whose house my sister was insulted in when she was their governess. She was turned out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna, because he kept persecuting her with his ‘at- tention’. This Marfa Petrovna begged Dunia’s forgiveness afterwards, and she’s just died suddenly. That was the woman we were talking about this morning. I don’t know why I’m afraid of him. He came here at once after his wife’s funeral. He is very strange, and he is determined to do something . . . We must protect Dunia from him . . . that’s what I wanted to tell you.” “Protect her! What can he do to harm Avdotia Romanovna? Thank you, Rodia, for telling me about it . We will, we will protect her. Where does he live?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you ask? What a pity! I’ll find out, though.”

“Did you see him?” asked Raskolnikov after a pause.

“Yes, I took notice of him, I took careful notice of him.”

“You did really see him? You saw him clearly?” Raskolnikov insisted.

“Yes, I remember him perfectly, I would recognize him in a crowd of a thousand; I have a good memory for faces.”

They were silent again.

“Hm! . . . that’s all right,” muttered Raskolnikov. “Do you know, I imagined . . . I keep thinking that it may have been a hallucination.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“Well, you all say,” Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile, “that I’m mad. I thought just now that perhaps I really am mad, and that I just saw a ghost.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and perhaps everything that happens these days is just my imagination.”

“Ah, Rodia, you have been upset again! . . . But what did he say, what did he come for?”

Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumikhin thought for a minute.

“Now let me tell you my story,” he began, “I came to you, you were asleep. Then we had dinner and then I went to Porfiry’s, Zametov was still with him. I tried to start, but it was no use. I couldn’t speak in the right way. They don’t seem to understand and can’t understand, but they aren’t even slightly ashamed of themselves. I drew Porfiry to the window, and began talking to him, but it was still no use. He looked away and I looked away. At last I shook my fist in his ugly face, and told him as a cousin I’d brain him. He just looked at me, I cursed and left. That was all. It was very stupid. I didn’t say a word to Zametov. But, you see, I thought I’d made a mess of it, but as I went downstairs a brilliant idea struck me: why should we bother? Of course, if you were in any danger or anything, but why should you care? You shouldn’t care about them at all. We shall have a laugh at them afterwards, and if I were in your place I’d mystify them more than ever. How ashamed they’ll be afterwards! Damn them! We can thrash them afterwards, so let’s laugh at them now!” “Definitely,” answered Raskolnikov. “But what will you say tomorrow?” he thought to himself. Strangely enough, until that moment it had never occurred to him to wonder what Razumikhin would think when he knew. As he was thinking, Raskolnikov looked at him. Razumikhin’s account of his visit to Porfiry held very little interest for him; so much had come and gone since then.

In the corridor they found Luzhin; he had arrived punctually at eight, and was looking for the number, so all three went in together without greeting or looking at one another. The young men walked in first, while Peter Petrovich, in order to preserve his good manners, lingered a little in the passage, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna came forward at once to greet him in the doorway; Dunia was welcoming her brother. Peter Petrovich walked in and quite amiably, though with even greater dignity, bowed to the ladies. He looked, however, as though he were a little offended and could not yet recover his composure. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who also seemed a little embarrassed, quickly made them all sit down at the round table where a samovar was boiling. Dunia and Luzhin were facing one another on opposite sides of the table. Razumikhin and Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria Alexandrovna, Razumikhin was next to Luzhin and Raskolnikov was beside his sister.

A moment’s silence followed. Peter Petrovich deliberately drew out a cambric handkerchief stinking of scent and blew his nose with an air of a kindly man who felt offended and had decided to insist on an explanation. In the passage an idea had occurred to him to keep on his overcoat and walk away, and so give the two ladies a sharp and emphatic lesson and make them feel the seriousness of the situation. But he could not bring himself to do this. Besides, he could not stand uncertainty and he wanted an explanation: if his request had been so openly disobeyed, there was something behind it, and in that case it was better to find it out beforehand; it was his task to punish them and there would always be time for that.

“I trust you had a good journey,” he asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna officially.

“Oh, very, Peter Petrovich.”

“I am pleased to hear it. And Avdotia Romanovna is not overly tired either?”

“I am young and strong, I don’t get tired, but it was a great strain for mother,” answered Dunia.

“That’s unavoidable; our national railways are of terrible length. ‘Mother Russia,’ as they say, is a vast country . . . In spite of all my desire to do so, I was unable to meet you yesterday. But I trust everything passed off without any inconvenience?” “Oh, no, Peter Petrovich, it was all terribly disheartening,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared hurriedly in a strange tone of voice, “and if Dmitri Prokofich had not been sent to us, I really believe by God Himself, we would have been totally lost. Here, he is! Dmitri Prokofich Razumikhin,” she added, introducing him to Luzhin.

“I had the pleasure . . . yesterday,” muttered Peter Petrovich with a hostile sideways glance at Razumikhin; then he scowled and fell silent.

Peter Petrovich belonged to that class of people who on the surface are very polite in society, who make a great point of behaving properly, but who are completely disconcerted when they are contradicted about anything, and become more like sacks of flour than elegant, lively people of society. Again everyone was silent; Raskolnikov was obstinately mute, Avdotia Romanovna was unwilling to start the conversation again too soon. Razumikhin had nothing to say, so Pulcheria Alexandrovna was anxious again.

“Marfa Petrovna is dead, have you heard?” she began having recourse to her leading item of conversation.

“Yes, I heard so. I was immediately informed, and I have come to tell you that Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov set off in haste for Petersburg immediately after his wife’s funeral. So at least I have excellent grounds for believing it.” “To Petersburg? Here?” Dunia asked in alarm and looked at her mother.

“Yes, and doubtlessly not without some kind of intention, bearing in mind how swiftly he left, and all the preceding circumstances.”

“Goodness! Won’t he leave Dunia in peace even here?” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“I imagine that neither you nor Avdotia Romanovna has any grounds for uneasiness, unless, of course, you wish to communicate with him. As far as I am concerned, I am going to watch out for him; I am currently trying to find out where he is staying.” “Oh, Peter Petrovich, you would not believe what a fright you have given me,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on. “I’ve only seen him twice, but I thought he was terrible, terrible! I am convinced that he was the cause of Marfa Petrovna’s death.” “It’s impossible to be certain about that. I have precise information. I do not dispute that he may have accelerated the course of events by the moral influence, so to say, of the offence; but as to his general conduct and moral characteristics, I agree with you. I do not know whether he is well off now, and precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; this will be known to me within a very short period; but no doubt here in Petersburg, if he has any financial resources, he will lapse at once into his old habits. He is the most vicious, depraved specimen of that particular type. I have considerable reason to believe that Marfa Petrovna, who was unfortunate enough to fall in love with him and to pay his debts eight years ago, was also of service to him in another way. Solely by her exertions and sacrifices, a criminal charge, involving an element of fantastic and homicidal brutality for which he might well have been sentenced to Siberia, was hushed up. That’s the sort of man he is, if you care to know.” “Good heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov listened attentively.

“Are you speaking the truth when you say that you have good evidence of this?” Dunia asked sternly and emphatically.

“I only repeat what I was told in secret by Marfa Petrovna. I must observe that from the legal point of view the case was far from clear. There was, and I believe still is, living here a woman called Resslich, a foreigner, who lent small sums of money at interest, and did other commissions, and with this woman Svidrigailov had for a long while close and mysterious relations. She had a relation, a niece I believe, living with her, a deaf and dumb girl fifteen years of age, or perhaps not more than fourteen. Resslich hated this girl, and grudged her every crust; she used to beat her mercilessly. One day the girl was found hanging in the garret. At the inquest the verdict was suicide. After the usual proceedings the matter ended, but, later on, information was given that the child had been . . . cruelly outraged by Svidrigailov. It is true, this was not clearly established, the information was given by another German woman of notorious character whose word could not be trusted; no statement was actually made to the police, thanks to Marfa Petrovna’s money and efforts; it did not get beyond gossip. And yet the story is a very significant one. You heard, no doubt, Avdotia Romanovna, when you were with them the story of the servant Philip who died of ill treatment he received six years ago, before the abolition of serfdom.” “I heard on the contrary that this Philip hanged himself.”

“That is true, but what drove him, or rather perhaps disposed him, to suicide, was the systematic persecution and severity of Mr. Svidrigailov.”

“I don’t know that,” answered Dunia, dryly. “I only heard a strange story that Philip was some type of hypochondriac, a sort of domestic philosopher, the servants used to say, ‘he read himself silly,’ and that he hanged himself partly because of Mr. Svidrigailov’s mockery of him and not the injuries he inflicted. When I was there he behaved well to the servants, and they were actually fond of him, though they certainly did blame him for Philip’s death.” “I notice, Avdotia Romanovna, that you seem disposed to undertake his defense all of a sudden,” Luzhin observed, twisting his lips into an ambiguous smile, “there’s no doubt that he is an astute man, and charming where ladies are concerned, of which Marfa Petrovna, who has died so strangely, is a terrible example. My only desire has been to be of service to you and your mother with my advice, in view of the renewed efforts which may certainly be anticipated from him. For my part it’s my firm conviction that he will end up in debtor’s prison again. Marfa Petrovna had not the slightest intention of leaving him anything substantial, given his children’s interests, and, if she left him anything, it would only be the slightest means on which to get by, something insignificant, which would not last a year for a man of his habits.” “Peter Petrovich, I beg you,” said Dunia, “don’t say anything else about Mr. Svidrigailov. It makes me miserable.”

“He has just been to see me,” said Raskolnikov, breaking his silence for the first time.

There were exclamations from everyone, and they all turned to him. Even Peter Petrovich’s interest was aroused.

“An hour and a half ago, he came in when I was asleep, woke me up, and introduced himself,” Raskolnikov continued. “He was fairly cheerful and at ease, and hopes that we shall become friends. He is particularly anxious by the way, Dunia, to arrange an interview with you, at which he asked me to be present. He has a proposition to make to you, and he told me about it. He told me, too, that a week before her death Marfa Petrovna left you three thousand rubles in her will, Dunia, and that you will receive the money very soon.” “Thank God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. “Pray for her soul, Dunia!”

“It’s a fact!” broke from Luzhin.

“Tell us, what more?” Dunia urged Raskolnikov.

“Then he said that he wasn’t rich and all the estate was left to his children who are now with an aunt, then that he was staying somewhere not far from me, but where, I don’t know, I didn’t ask . . . ” “But what, what is this proposition he wants to make to Dunia?” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna in a fright. “Did he tell you?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“I’ll tell you afterwards.”

Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention to his tea.

Peter Petrovich looked at his watch.

“I am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so I shall not be in your way,” he added with an air of some pique and he began getting up.

“Don’t go, Peter Petrovich,” said Dunia, “you intended to spend the evening here. Besides, you wrote yourself that you wanted to sort something out with mother.”

“Precisely so, Avdotia Romanovna,” Peter Petrovich answered impressively, sitting down again, but still holding his hat. “I certainly desired to sort out a very important point with you and your mother, whom I respect so highly. But as your brother cannot speak openly in my presence about Mr. Svidrigailov’s proposals, I, too, do not desire and am not able to speak openly . . . in the presence of others . . . about certain matters of the greatest importance. Moreover, my most insistent and urgent request has been disregarded . . . ” Assuming an aggrieved air, Luzhin lapsed into dignified silence.

“Your request that my brother should not be present at our meeting was disregarded solely because I wanted to disregard it,” said Dunia. “You wrote that you had been insulted by my brother; I think you must explain this at once, and you must be reconciled. And if Rodia really has insulted you, then he should and will apologize.” Peter Petrovich took a stronger line.

“There are insults, Avdotia Romanovna, which no goodwill can make us forget. There is a line in everything which it is dangerous to overstep; and when it has been overstepped, there is no return.”

“That wasn’t quite what I was talking about, Peter Petrovich,” Dunia interrupted with some impatience. “Please understand that our whole future now depends on whether all this can be explained and set right as soon as possible. I am telling you frankly, from the start, that I cannot look at it in any other light, and if you have the slightest regard for me, this business must end today, however hard that may be. I repeat that if my brother is to blame he will ask your forgiveness.” “I am surprised that you put the question like that,” said Luzhin, getting more and more irritated. “Respecting and, so to say, adoring you, I may at the same time, very well indeed, be able to dislike a member of your family. Though I lay claim to the happiness of your hand in marriage, I cannot accept duties incompatible with . . . ” “Ah, don’t be so ready to take offence, Peter Petrovich,” Dunia interrupted with feeling, “and be the sensible and generous man I have always considered, and wish to consider, you to be. I’ve given you a great promise; I am engaged to you. Trust me in this matter and, believe me, I shall be capable of judging impartially. My assuming the part of judge is as much a surprise for my brother as for you. When I insisted that he came to our interview today after your letter, I told him nothing about what I meant to do. You must understand that, if you are not reconciled, I must choose between you—it must be either you or he. That is how the question rests on your side and on his. I don’t want to be mistaken in my choice, and I must not be. For your sake I must break off with my brother, for my brother’s sake I must break off with you. I can find out for certain now whether he is behaving like a brother to me and, as a matter of fact, I would like to; and I can also find out whether I am dear to you, whether you respect me, whether you are the husband for me.” “Avdotia Romanovna,” Luzhin declared in an offended tone, “your words have too many implications for me; moreover, they are offensive in view of the position I have the honor to occupy in relation to you. To say nothing of your strange and offensive behavior in setting me on a level with an insolent boy, you admit the possibility of breaking your promise to me. You say ‘you or he,’ thereby showing how unimportant I am to you . . . I cannot let this pass considering the relationship and . . . the obligations existing between us.” “What!” cried Dunia, flushing. “I set your interest beside everything that has up until now been most precious in my life, what has made up the whole of my life, and here you are offended because I haven’t sufficiently taken you into account!” Raskolnikov smiled sarcastically, Razumikhin fidgeted, but Peter Petrovich did not accept her rebuke; on the contrary, at every word he became more persistent and irritable, as though he relished it.

“Love for the future partner of your life, for your husband, ought to outweigh your love for your brother,” he pronounced sententiously, “and in any case I cannot be put on the same level . . . Although I said so emphatically that I would not speak openly in your brother’s presence, nevertheless I now intend to ask your dear mother for a necessary explanation on a point of which is extremely important to my dignity. Your son,” he turned to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “yesterday in the presence of Mr. Razsudkin (or . . . I think that’s it? excuse me I have forgotten your surname,” he bowed politely to Razumikhin) “insulted me by misrepresenting the idea I expressed to you in a private conversation over coffee, that is, that marriage to a poor girl who has had her fair share of troubles is more advantageous from the conjugal point of view than a marriage to a girl who has lived in luxury, since it is more profitable for the moral character. Your son intentionally exaggerated the significance of my words and made them ridiculous, accusing me of malicious intentions, and, as far as I could see, relied on your correspondence with him. I shall consider myself happy, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, if you could convince me of the opposite conclusion and thus considerately reassure me. Please let me know in what terms precisely you repeated my words in your letter to Rodion Romanovich.” “I don’t remember,” faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I repeated them as I understood them. I don’t know how Rodia repeated them to you, perhaps he exaggerated.”

“He could not have exaggerated them unless you gave him good cause.”

“Peter Petrovich,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with dignity, “the proof that Dunia and I did not take your words in a very bad sense is the fact that we are here.”

“Good, Mother,” said Dunia approvingly.

“Then this is my fault again,” said Luzhin, aggrieved.

“Well, Peter Petrovich, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself have just written something false about him,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, gaining courage.

“I don’t remember writing anything false.”

“You wrote,” Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to Luzhin, “that I gave money yesterday not to the widow of the man who was killed, as was the case, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen until yesterday). You wrote this to cause a rift between me and my family, and so you added coarse expressions about the conduct of a girl whom you don’t know. That is all the meanest sort of slander.” “Excuse me, sir,” said Luzhin, quivering with fury. “I enlarged upon your qualities and conduct in my letter solely in response to your sister’s and mother’s inquiries about how I found you and what impression you made on me. As for what you’ve referred to in my letter, be so good as to point out one word of falsehood, show, that is, that you didn’t throw away your money, and that there are not worthless persons in that family, however unfortunate.” “To my thinking, you with all your virtues are not worth the little finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you choose to throw stones.”

“Would you go so far then as to let her associate with your mother and sister?”

“I have done so already, if you care to know. I made her sit down today with mother and Dunia.”

“Rodia!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dunia crimsoned, Razumikhin knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled with lofty sarcasm.

“You may see for yourself, Avdotia Romanovna,” he said, “whether it is possible for us to agree. I hope now that this question has been dealt with once and for all. I will withdraw in order not to hinder the pleasures of family intimacy and the discussion of secrets.” He got up from his chair and took his hat. “But before I withdraw, I would like to request that in future I may be spared similar meetings and, so to say, compromises. I appeal particularly to you, my dearest Pulcheria Alexandrovna, on this subject, as my letter was addressed to you and no-one else.” Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended.

“You seem to think we are completely under your authority, Peter Petrovich. Dunia has told you the reason she disregarded your desire, she had the best intentions. You even write as though you were giving me orders. Should we consider every desire of yours an order? Let me tell you on the contrary that you ought to show particular sensitivity and consideration for us now, because we have thrown up everything and have come here relying on you, and so we are in any case in a sense in your hands.” “That is not quite true, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at the moment, when news has come of Marfa Petrovna’s legacy, which seems indeed very timely, judging from the new tone which you are taking with me,” he added sarcastically.

“Judging from that remark, we may certainly assume that you were counting on our helplessness,” Dunia observed irritably.

“But now in any case I cannot count on it, and I am particularly unwilling to hinder your discussion of Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov’s secret proposals, which he has entrusted to your brother and which, I perceive, interest you greatly, perhaps even favorably.” “Good heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Razumikhin could not sit still on his chair.

“Aren’t you ashamed now, Dunia?” asked Raskolnikov.

“I am ashamed, Rodia,” said Dunia. “Peter Petrovich, get out,” she turned to him, white with anger.

Peter Petrovich had apparently not expected this type of conclusion. 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 quivered.

“Avdotia Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after such a dismissal, then you can be sure I will never come back. Consider what you are doing. My word is unshakeable.”

“What insolence!” cried Dunia, springing up from her seat. “I don’t want you to come back again.”

“What! So that’s how it stands!” cried Luzhin, entirely unable to believe in the disagreement to the last, and now totally at a loss. “So that’s how it stands! Do you realize, Avdotia Romanovna, that I can protest?” “What right do you have to speak to her like that?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna intervened hotly. “And what can you protest about? What rights do you have? Should I give Dunia to a man like you? Go away, leave us alone! We are to blame for having agreed to the wrong course of action, and I above all . . . ” “But you have bound me, Pulcheria Alexandrovna,” Luzhin stormed in a frenzy, “by your promise, and now you deny it and . . . besides . . . I have been led on account of that into expenses . . . ”

This last complaint was so characteristic of Peter Petrovich, that Raskolnikov, pale with anger and with the effort of restraining it, could not help breaking into laughter. But Pulcheria Alexandrovna was furious.

“Expenses? What expenses? Are you talking about our trunk? But the conductor brought it for nothing for you. Mercy on us, we have bound you! What are you thinking about, Peter Petrovich, it was you who bound us, hand and foot, not we!” “Enough, Mother, no more please,” Avdotia Romanovna begged them. “Peter Petrovich, please go!”

“I am going, but one last word,” he said, quite unable to control himself. “Your mother seems to have entirely forgotten that I made up my mind to take you, so to speak, after the gossip of the town had spread all over the district in regard to your reputation. Disregarding public opinion for your sake and reinstating your reputation, I certainly might well count on a fitting return and might in fact look for gratitude on your part. And my eyes have only now been opened! I see myself that I may have acted very, very recklessly in disregarding the universal verdict . ” “Does the fellow want his head smashed?” cried Razumikhin, jumping up.

“You are a mean and spiteful man!” cried Dunia.

“Not a word! Not a movement!” cried Raskolnikov, holding Razumikhin back; then going close up to Luzhin, “Kindly leave the room!” he said quietly and distinctly, “and not a word more or . . . ”

Peter Petrovich gazed at him for some seconds with a pale face distorted by anger, then he turned and left; and rarely has any man carried away in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt against Raskolnikov. Him, and him alone, he blamed for everything. It is worth noting that as he went downstairs he still imagined that his case was perhaps not entirely lost, and that, so far as the ladies were concerned, all might “very well indeed” be set right again.