Chapter 23 of 41

III

The main thing was that, until the very last minute, he had not expected such an outcome at all. He had strutted about right up to the final line, not even supposing the possibility that two destitute and defenseless women could escape from under his power. His vanity and that degree of self-confidence which is best called self-infatuation greatly contributed to this conviction. Pyotr Petrovich, having risen from insignificance, had grown morbidly accustomed to admiring himself, valued his mind and abilities highly, and even sometimes, when alone, admired his face in the mirror. But most of all in the world he loved and valued his money, acquired through labor and all manner of means: it made him equal to all those who were above him.

Reminding Dunya now with bitterness that he had decided to take her despite the bad rumors about her, Pyotr Petrovich spoke quite sincerely and even felt deep indignation at such "black ingratitude." And yet, when courting Dunya, he had already been completely convinced of the absurdity of all these rumors, publicly refuted by Marfa Petrovna herself and long since abandoned by the entire little town, which warmly vindicated Dunya. Yes, and even now he would not have denied that he had known all this even then. And nevertheless, he still valued his resolve to elevate Dunya to his level highly and considered it a heroic deed. Reproaching Dunya about this now, he was expressing his secret, cherished thought, which he had admired many times already, and could not understand how others could fail to admire his heroic deed. Arriving then to visit Raskolnikov, he had entered with the feelings of a benefactor preparing to reap the fruits and hear the sweetest compliments. And now, certainly, descending the stairs, he considered himself offended and unappreciated to the highest degree.

Dunya was simply necessary to him; to renounce her was unthinkable. For a long time now, for several years, he had been voluptuously dreaming of marriage, but kept accumulating money and waiting. He dwelt with rapture, in deepest secrecy, on a virtuous and poor girl (necessarily poor), very young, very pretty, well-born and educated, very frightened, who had experienced a great many misfortunes and was completely prostrate before him, one who would consider him her salvation all her life, revere him, submit to him, admire him, and him alone. How many scenes, how many sweet episodes he had created in his imagination on this seductive and playful theme, resting quietly from his affairs! And now the dream of so many years was almost being realized: Avdotya Romanovna's beauty and education struck him; her helpless position excited him to the extreme. Here was even something more than what he had dreamed of: here was a proud, strong-willed, virtuous girl, superior to him in education and development (he felt this), and such a creature would be slavishly grateful to him all her life for his heroic deed and reverently efface herself before him, while he would have unlimited and absolute dominion over her!.. As if on purpose, not long before, after long deliberations and expectations, he had finally decided definitively to change his career and enter a wider sphere of activity, and at the same time, little by little, to pass into higher society, about which he had long been thinking voluptuously... In short, he had decided to try Petersburg. He knew that with women one could gain "very, very" much. The charm of a lovely, virtuous, and educated woman could wonderfully smooth his path, attract people to him, create a halo... and now everything was collapsing! This sudden, outrageous break now affected him like a thunderbolt. It was some kind of outrageous joke, an absurdity! He had only shown off a tiny bit; he had not even managed to speak his mind, he had simply joked, gotten carried away, and it had ended so seriously! Finally, after all, he already even loved Dunya in his own way, he already ruled over her in his dreams—and suddenly!.. No! Tomorrow, tomorrow he must restore all this, heal it, fix it, and most importantly—destroy that arrogant milksop, that boy who was the cause of it all. With a painful sensation he also recalled, somehow involuntarily, Razumikhin... but he soon calmed himself on this score: "As if this one could be placed alongside him!" But whom he truly seriously feared was Svidrigailov... In short, there were many troubles ahead.

"No, I, I am more guilty than anyone!" said Dunechka, 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 never have been tempted! Don't blame me, brother!"

"God has delivered us! God has delivered us!" mumbled Pulcheria Alexandrovna, but somehow unconsciously, as if still not quite grasping all that had happened.

Everyone was rejoicing; in five minutes they were even laughing. Only Dunechka occasionally turned pale and knitted her brows, recalling what had happened. Pulcheria Alexandrovna could not have imagined that she too would be glad; the break with Luzhin had seemed a terrible calamity to her just that morning. But Razumikhin was in raptures. He did not yet dare express it fully, but he trembled all over as if in a fever, as if a five-pood weight had fallen from his heart. Now he had the right to devote his whole life to them, to serve them... Who knows what else now! However, he drove away further thoughts even more timidly and feared his imagination. Only Raskolnikov sat in the same place as before, almost sullen and even distracted. He, who had most insisted on Luzhin's dismissal, now seemed the least interested in what had happened. Dunya could not help thinking that he was still very angry with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him fearfully.

"What did Svidrigailov tell you?" Dunya approached him.

"Oh yes, yes!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Raskolnikov raised his head:

"He wants absolutely to give you ten thousand rubles and at the same time declares his wish to see you once in my presence."

"See her! Never in the world!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "And how dare he offer her money!"

Then Raskolnikov conveyed (rather dryly) his conversation with Svidrigailov, omitting the matter of Marfa Petrovna's apparitions, in order not to go into unnecessary details and feeling aversion to starting any conversation except the most necessary.

"What did you answer him?" asked Dunya.

"At first I said I would tell you nothing. Then he declared that he would seek a meeting with you himself, by all means. He assured me that his passion for you was a whim and that he now feels nothing for you... He doesn't want you to marry Luzhin... Generally he spoke confusedly."

"How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he seem to you?"

"I confess, I don't understand anything well. He offers ten thousand, yet says himself that he's not rich. He declares he wants to go away somewhere, and ten minutes later forgets he spoke of it. Suddenly he also says he wants to marry and that a bride is already being arranged for him... Of course, he has aims, and most likely bad ones. But again it's somehow strange to suppose that he would approach the matter so stupidly if he had bad intentions toward you... I, of course, refused the money on your behalf, once and for all. Generally he seemed very strange to me, and... even... with signs as if of madness. But I could be mistaken; it may simply be some kind of deception. Marfa Petrovna's death seems to be making an impression on him..."

"May the Lord rest her soul!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I will pray to God for her eternally, eternally! Well, what would have become of us now, Dunya, without those three thousand! Lord, it's as if they fell from heaven! Why, Rodya, this morning we had only three silver rubles left to our souls, and Dunechka and I were only reckoning how to pawn the watch somewhere as quickly as possible, so as not to take anything from him until he thought of it himself."

Dunya was somehow too struck by Svidrigailov's offer. She stood lost in thought.

"He's plotting something terrible!" she said almost in a whisper to herself, nearly shuddering.

Raskolnikov noticed this excessive fear.

"It seems I'll have to see him more than once," he said to Dunya.

"We'll keep watch! I'll track him down!" Razumikhin cried energetically. "I won't let him out of my sight! Rodya has given me permission. He told me himself just now: 'Protect my sister.' Will you permit me, Avdotya Romanovna?"

Dunya smiled and extended her hand to him, but the worry did not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna timidly glanced at her; however, the three thousand visibly calmed her.

In a quarter of an hour everyone was in the liveliest conversation. Even Raskolnikov, though he didn't speak, listened attentively for some time. Razumikhin was holding forth.

"And why, why should you leave!" he poured forth rapturously in an enthusiastic speech. "And what will you do in that little town? The main thing is, you're all together here and you need each other, oh how you need each other—understand me! Well, at least for some time... Take me as a friend, as a partner, and I assure you we'll start an excellent enterprise. Listen, I'll explain it all to you in detail—the whole project! It already flashed through my head this morning, when nothing had happened yet... Here's the thing: I have an uncle (I'll introduce you; a most agreeable and most respectable little old man!), and this uncle has a thousand rubles of capital, while he himself lives on a pension and isn't in need. 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 just waiting for him to arrive and decided to take it. Then you'll give another thousand from your three, and that's enough for the start, and so we'll unite. What will we do?"

Here Razumikhin began developing his project and spoke at length about how almost all our booksellers and publishers know little about their wares, and therefore are usually poor publishers, while decent publications generally pay for themselves and give a profit, sometimes significant. Razumikhin had been dreaming of publishing activity, having worked for others for two years already and knowing three European languages tolerably well, despite having told Raskolnikov six days ago that his German was "weak," with the aim of persuading him to take on half of a translation job and three rubles as advance: and he had lied then, and Raskolnikov knew he was lying.

"Why, why should we let the opportunity slip when we have one of the chief means at hand—our own money?" Razumikhin said fervently. "Of course, it needs a lot of work, but we'll work, you, Avdotya Romanovna, I, Rodion... some publications now give a splendid profit! And the main foundation of the enterprise is that we'll know exactly what needs to be translated. We'll translate, and publish, and study, all together. Now I can be useful because I have experience. I've been prowling around publishers for almost two years now and know all their ins and outs: they're not saints making pots, believe me! And why, why let a morsel pass by our mouths! Why, I myself know, and keep secret, two or three such works that for the mere idea of translating and publishing them one could take a hundred rubles for each book, and for one of them I wouldn't take five hundred rubles just for the idea. And what do you think, if I told someone, they might still doubt it, such blockheads! As for the actual business matters, the print shops, paper, sales, leave that to me! I know all the ins and outs! We'll start small, grow to big, at least we'll have something to live on, and in any case we'll get back our investment."

Dunya's eyes sparkled.

"What you're saying I like very much, Dmitry Prokofych," she said.

"I, of course, know nothing about this," responded Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "perhaps it's good, but again, God knows. It's somehow new, unknown. Of course, we must stay here, at least for some time..."

She looked at Rodya.

"What do you think, brother?" said Dunya.

"I think he has a very good idea," he answered. "Of course, there's no need to dream of a firm in advance, but five or six books can indeed be published with certain success. I myself know one work that will definitely sell. And as for whether he can manage the business, there's no doubt about that: he understands the business... However, you'll still have time to come to an agreement..."

"Hurrah!" cried Razumikhin. "Now wait, there's an apartment here, in this same building, from the same landlords. It's separate, detached, doesn't connect with these rooms, and it's furnished, the price is moderate, three little rooms. Take it for the start. I'll pawn the watch for you tomorrow and bring the money, and then everything will work out. The main thing is, all three of you can live together, and Rodya will be with you... Where are you going, Rodya?"

"What, Rodya, you're leaving already?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked even with fright.

"At such a moment!" cried Razumikhin.

Dunya looked at her brother with distrustful amazement. He held his cap in his hands; he was preparing to leave.

"Why, it's as if you're burying me or saying farewell forever," he said somehow strangely.

He seemed to smile, but it was as if it wasn't a smile.

"But who knows, perhaps we're seeing each other for the last time," he added unexpectedly.

He had thought this to himself, but somehow it was spoken aloud.

"What's wrong with you!" his mother cried.

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

"Just so, I really must," he answered vaguely, as if hesitating about what he wanted to say. But there was some sharp resolution in his pale face.

"I wanted to say... coming here... I wanted to tell you, mama... and you, Dunya, that it would be better for us to part for some time. 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 this 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 necessary, I'll come myself or... call for you. Perhaps everything will be resurrected!.. But now, if you love me, renounce... Otherwise, I'll come to hate you, I feel it... Farewell!"

"Lord!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Both mother and sister were terribly frightened; Razumikhin too.

"Rodya, Rodya! Make peace with us, let's be as before!" cried the poor mother.

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 burning with indignation.

He looked at her heavily.

"Nothing, I'll come, I'll visit!" he muttered in an undertone, as if not fully conscious of what he wanted to say, and left the room.

"Unfeeling, wicked egoist!" cried Dunya.

"He's in-sane, not unfeeling! He's mad! Don't you see it? You're unfeeling after that!.." Razumikhin whispered hotly right at her ear, squeezing her hand tightly.

"I'll be right back!" he shouted, addressing the deathly pale Pulcheria Alexandrovna, and ran out of the room.

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

"I knew you'd run out," he said. "Go back to them and be with them... Be with them tomorrow too... and always. I... perhaps will come... if possible. Farewell!"

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

"But where are you going? What are you doing? What's wrong with you? How can you do this!.." muttered the completely bewildered Razumikhin.

Raskolnikov stopped once more.

"Once and for all: never ask me about anything. I have nothing to answer you... Don't come to me. Perhaps I'll come here... Leave me, but them... don't leave them. Do you understand me?"

It was dark in the corridor; they stood near the lamp. For a minute they looked at each other silently. Razumikhin remembered this minute all his life. Raskolnikov's burning and intent gaze seemed to intensify with each instant, penetrating into his soul, into his consciousness. Suddenly Razumikhin shuddered. Something strange seemed to pass between them... Some idea flashed by, like a hint; something terrible, hideous, and suddenly understood on both sides... Razumikhin turned pale as death.

"Do you understand now?.." Raskolnikov suddenly said with a painfully distorted face. "Go back, go to them," he added suddenly and, quickly turning, walked out of the house...

I will not now describe what happened that evening at Pulcheria Alexandrovna's, how Razumikhin returned to them, how he calmed them, how he swore that Rodya must be allowed to rest in his illness, swore that Rodya would certainly come, would visit every day, that he was very, very upset, that he must not be irritated; how he, Razumikhin, would watch over him, would get him a good doctor, the best, a whole consultation... In short, from that evening Razumikhin became a son and brother to them.