بخش 04 - فصل 03

CHAPTER THREE

THE FACT WAS THAT up to the last moment he had never expected such an ending; he had been overbearing to the last degree, never dreaming that two destitute and defenseless women could escape from his control. This conviction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit which he took to the point of excess. Peter Petrovich, who had made his way up from insignificance, was morbidly given to self-admiration, had the highest opinion of his intelligence and capacities, and sometimes even gloated in solitude over his reflection in the mirror. But what he loved and valued above all was the money he had amassed by his work, and by all sorts of devices: that money made him the equal of all who had been his superiors.

When he had bitterly reminded Dunia that he had decided to take her in spite of various evil reports, Peter Petrovich had spoken with perfect sincerity and had, indeed, felt genuinely indignant at such “black ingratitude.” And yet, when he made Dunia his offer, he was fully aware of the groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had been contradicted in every quarter by Marfa Petrovna and was by then distrusted among all the townspeople, who were warm in Dunia’s defense. And he would not have denied that he knew all that at the time. Yet he still thought highly of his own resolution in lifting Dunia to his level and regarded it as something heroic. In speaking of it to Dunia, he had let out the secret feeling he cherished and admired, and he could not understand that others should fail to admire it too. He had called on Raskolnikov with the feelings of a benefactor who is about to reap the fruits of his good deeds and to hear pleasing flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he considered himself undeservedly injured and unrecognized.

Dunia was simply essential to him; to do without her was unthinkable. For many years he had voluptuous dreams of marriage, but he had gone on waiting and amassing money. He brooded with relish, in profound secret, over the image of a girl—virtuous, poor (she must be poor), very young, very pretty, well-born and well-educated, very timid, one who had suffered much, and was completely humbled before him, one who would all her life look on him as her savior, worship him, admire him and only him. How many scenes, how many amorous episodes he had imagined on this seductive and playful theme, when his work was over! And, behold, the dream of so many years was all but realized; the beauty and education of Avdotia Romanovna had impressed him; her helpless position had been a great allurement; in her he had found even more than he dreamed of. Here was a girl of pride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior to his own (he felt that), and this creature would be slavishly grateful all her life for his heroic condescension, and would humble herself in the dust before him, and he would have absolute, unbounded power over her! . . . Not long before, he had also, after long reflection and hesitation, made an important change in his career and was now entering into a wider circle of business. With this change his cherished dreams of rising into a higher class of society seemed likely to be realized . . . He was, in fact, determined to try his fortune in Petersburg. He knew that women could do a very great deal. The fascination of a charming, virtuous, highly educated woman might make things easier for him, might do wonders in attracting people to him, throwing an aura round him, and now everything was in ruins! This sudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; it was like a hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been a tiny bit masterful, had not even time to speak out, had simply made a joke, got carried away—and it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love Dunia in his own way; he already possessed her in his dreams—and all at once! No! The next day, the very next day, it must all be set right, smoothed over, settled. Above all he must crush that conceited brat who was the cause of it all. With a sick feeling he could not help remembering Razumikhin too, but, he soon reassured himself on that score; as though a man like that could be put on a level with him! The person he really dreaded in earnest was Svidrigailov . . . He had, in short, a great deal to attend to . . .— “No, I, I am more to blame than anyone!” said Dunia, kissing and embracing her mother. “I was tempted by his money, but I swear, Rodia, I had no idea he was such an evil man. If I had seen through him before, nothing would have tempted me! Don’t blame me, Rodia!” “God has delivered us! God has delivered us!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna muttered, but half consciously, as though scarcely able to realize what had happened.

They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Only now and then Dunia turned white and frowned, remembering what had happened. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that she, too, was glad: she had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terrible misfortune. Razumikhin was delighted. He did not yet dare to express his joy fully, but he was in a fever of excitement as though a ton-weight had fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to devote his life to them, to serve them . . . Anything might happen now! But he felt afraid to think of further possibilities and dared not let his imagination range. But Raskolnikov sat still in the same place, almost sullen and indifferent. Though he had been the most insistent on getting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least concerned at what had happened. Dunia could not help thinking that he was still angry with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him timidly.

“What did Svidrigailov say to you?” said Dunia, approaching him.

“Yes, yes!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Raskolnikov raised his head.

“He wants to make you a present of ten thousand rubles and he wishes to see you once in my presence.”

“See her! On no account!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “And how dare he offer her money!”

Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather dryly) his conversation with Svidrigailov, omitting his account of Marfa Petrovna’s ghost, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk.

“How did you reply?” asked Dunia.

“At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said that he would do his worst to obtain an interview with you without my help. He assured me that his passion for you was a passing infatuation, now he has no feeling for you. He doesn’t want you to marry Luzhin . . . All in all, he was rather muddled.” “How do you explain what he said, Rodia? How did he strike you?”

“I have to say, I don’t quite understand him. He offers you ten thousand, and yet he says he’s not well off. He says he’s going away, and in ten minutes he forgets he’s said it. Then he says he’s going to get married and has already decided on the girl . . . No doubt he has a motive, and probably a bad one. But it’s odd that he should be so clumsy about it if he had any designs against you . . . Of course, I refused this money on your behalf, once for all. All in all, I thought he was rather strange . . . One might almost assume he was mad. But I may be mistaken; he may just be pretending. The death of Marfa Petrovna seems to have made a great impact on him.” “God rest her soul,” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I shall always, always pray for her! Where would we be now, Dunia, without this three thousand! It’s as though it’d fallen from heaven! Why, Rodia, this morning we had only three rubles in our pocket and Dunia and I were just planning to pawn her watch in order to avoid borrowing from that man until he offered us help.” Dunia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigailov’s offer. She still stood meditating.

“He has got some terrible plan,” she said in a half whisper to herself, almost shuddering.

Raskolnikov noticed this slightly hysterical terror.

“I imagine I shall have to see him more than once again,” he said to Dunia.

“We will watch him! I will track him down!” cried Razumikhin, vigorously. “I won’t lose sight of him. Rodia has given me permission. He said to me himself just now, ‘Take care of my sister.’ Will you give me permission, too, Avdotia Romanovna?” Dunia smiled and held out her hand, but the look of anxiety did not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna gazed at her timidly, but the three thousand rubles had obviously had a soothing effect on her.

A quarter of an hour later, they were all engaged in a lively conversation. Even Raskolnikov listened attentively for some time, though he did not talk. Razumikhin was speaking.

“And why, why should you go away?” he flowed on ecstatically. “And what would you do in a little town? The great thing is, you are all here together and you need one another—you do need one another, believe me. For a time, anyway . . . Take me on as your partner and I assure you we’ll plan a brilliant enterprise. Listen! I’ll explain it all in detail to you, the whole project! It all flashed into my head this morning, before anything had happened . . . This is it: I have an uncle, I must introduce him to you (he’s a very obliging, respectable old man). This uncle has got a thousand rubles, and he lives on his pension and has no need of the money. For the last two years he has been bothering me to borrow it from him and pay him six per cent interest. I know what that means; he simply wants to help me. Last year I had no need of it, but this year I resolved to borrow it as soon as he arrived. Then you lend me another thousand of your three and we have enough for a start, so we’ll go into partnership, and what are we going to do?” Then Razumikhin began to unfold his project, and he explained at length that almost all our publishers and booksellers know nothing at all about what they are selling, and for that reason they are usually bad publishers, and that any decent publications pay as a rule and gain a profit, sometimes a considerable one. Razumikhin had in fact been dreaming of setting up as a publisher. For the last two years he had been working in publishers’ offices, and knew three European languages well, though he had told Raskolnikov six days before that he was “weak” in German in order to persuade him to take half his translation and half the payment for it. He had told a lie, then, and Raskolnikov knew he was lying.

“Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of the chief means of success—money of our own!” cried Razumikhin warmly. “Of course there will be a lot of work, but we will work, you, Avdotia Romanovna, I, Rodion … You get an excellent profit on some books nowadays! And the great point of the business is that we shall know just what needs to be translated, and we shall be translating, publishing and learning all at once. I can be of use because I have experience. For nearly two years I’ve been busying about among the publishers, and now I know every detail of their business. You don’t need to be a saint to make pots, believe me! And why, why should we let our chance slip! I know—and I kept the secret—two or three books which you might get a hundred rubles for, even if you just thought of translating and publishing them. I wouldn’t take five hundred even for the idea of one of them. So what do you think? If I were to tell a publisher, I dare say he’d hesitate—they are such blockheads! And as for the business side, printing, paper, selling, you entrust that to me, I know my way about. We’ll begin in a small way and go on to a large. In any case it will get us our living and we shall get a return on our capital.” Dunia’s eyes shone.

“I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofich!” she said.

“I know nothing about it, of course,” put in Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “it may be a good idea, but again, God knows. It’s new and untried. Of course, we must stay here at least for a time.” She looked at Rodia.

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

“I think he’s got a very good idea,” he answered. “Of course, it’s too soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we certainly might bring out five or six books and be sure of success. I know of one book myself which would be sure to go well. And as for whether he’s able to manage it, there’s no doubt about that either. He knows the business … But we can talk it over later . . . ” “Hurrah!” cried Razumikhin. “Now, wait, there’s an apartment here in this house, belonging to the same owner. It’s a special apartment; it doesn’t connect to these lodgings. It’s furnished, moderate rent, three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I’ll pawn your watch tomorrow and bring you the money, and everything can be arranged then. You can all live together, and Rodia will be with you. But, Rodia, where are you off to?” “What, Rodia, you are going already?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in dismay.

“At a moment like this?” cried Razumikhin.

Dunia looked at her brother in wonder and disbelief. He held his cap in his hand, he was preparing to leave them.

“One would think you were burying me or saying goodbye for ever,” he said somewhat oddly. He tried to smile, but it did not come out as a smile. “But who knows, maybe it is the last time we shall see each other . . . ” he let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and somehow he uttered it aloud.

“What is the matter with you?” cried his mother.

“Where are you going, Rodia?” asked Dunia rather strangely.

“Oh, I’m absolutely obliged to . . . ” he answered vaguely, as though he were hesitating about what he was going to say. But there was a look of sharp determination in his white face.

“I meant to say . . . as I was coming here . . . I meant to tell you, Mother, and you, Dunia, that it would be better for us to part for a time. I’m unwell, I’m not at peace . . . I’ll come afterwards, I’ll come of my own accord . . . whenever possible, I’ll remember you and love you . . . Leave me, leave me alone. I decided this beforehand . . . I’m absolutely set on it. Whatever may happen to me, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether, it’s better. Don’t ask after me. When I can, I’ll come of my own accord or . . . I’ll send for you. Perhaps it will all come back, but now if you love me, give me up . . . or else I shall begin to hate you, I feel it . . . Goodbye!” “Good God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his mother and his sister were extremely alarmed. Razumikhin was also.

“Rodia, Rodia, let us be reconciled! Let us be as before!” cried his poor mother.

He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the room. Dunia overtook him.

“Rodia, what are you doing to her?” she whispered, her eyes flashing with indignation.

He looked dully at her.

“No matter, I will come . . . I’m coming,” he muttered in an undertone, as though he was not fully conscious of what he was saying, and he went out of the room.

“Wicked, heartless egoist!” cried Dunia.

“He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don’t you see? It’s heartless of you to say it!” Razumikhin whispered in her ear, squeezing her hand tightly. “I shall be back immediately,” he shouted to their horror-stricken mother, and he ran out of the room.

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

“I knew you would run after me,” he said. “Go back to them—be with them . . . be with them tomorrow and always . . . I . . . perhaps I shall come . . . if I can. Goodbye.”

And without holding out his hand he walked away.

“But where are you going? What are you doing? What’s the matter with you? How can you go on like this?” Razumikhin muttered, at his wits’ end.

Raskolnikov stopped once more.

“For the last time, never ask me about anything. I have nothing to tell you. Don’t come to see me. Maybe I’ll come here . . . Leave me, but don’t leave them. Do you understand me?”

It was dark in the corridor, they were standing near the lamp. For a minute they were looking at one another in silence. Razumikhin remembered that minute all his life. Raskolnikov’s burning and intent eyes grew more penetrating every moment, piercing into his soul, into his consciousness. Suddenly Razumikhin started. Something strange, as it were, passed between them . . . Some idea, some hint as it were, slipped, something awful, hideous, and suddenly understood on both sides . . . Razumikhin turned pale.

“Do you understand now?” said Raskolnikov, his face twitching nervously. “Go back, go to them,” he said suddenly, and turning quickly, he went out of the house.

I will not attempt to describe how Razumikhin went back to the ladies, how he soothed them, how he protested that Rodia needed rest in his illness, protested that Rodia was sure to come, that he would come every day, that he was very, very upset, that he must not be irritated, that he, Razumikhin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, the best doctor, a consultation . . . In fact from that evening onwards Razumikhin took his place with them as a son and as a brother.