CHAPTER III

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 defenceless women could escape from his control. This

conviction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit to

the point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, 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 image in the glass. But what he loved and valued

above all was the money he had amassed by his labour, and by all sorts

of devices: that money made him the equal of all who had been his

superiors.

When he had bitterly reminded Dounia that he had decided to take her in

spite of evil report, Pyotr Petrovitch had spoken with perfect sincerity

and had, indeed, felt genuinely indignant at such “black ingratitude.”

And yet, when he made Dounia his offer, he was fully aware of the

groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had been everywhere

contradicted by Marfa Petrovna, and was by then disbelieved by all the

townspeople, who were warm in Dounia’s defence. 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 Dounia to his level and regarded it as

something heroic. In speaking of it to Dounia, 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 agreeable flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he

considered himself most undeservedly injured and unrecognised.

Dounia was simply essential to him; to do without her was unthinkable.

For many years he had 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, of good birth and education, very timid, one

who had suffered much, and was completely humbled before him, one who

would all her life look on him as her saviour, 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 realised; the beauty and

education of Avdotya 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, too, after long

reflection and hesitation, made an important change in his career and

was now entering on a wider circle of business. With this change his

cherished dreams of rising into a higher class of society seemed likely

to be realised.... 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

his way easier, might do wonders in attracting people to him, throwing

an aureole 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, been carried

away--and it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love

Dounia 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 milksop

who was the cause of it all. With a sick feeling he could not help

recalling Razumihin too, but, he soon reassured himself on that score;

as though a fellow like that could be put on a level with him! The man

he really dreaded in earnest was Svidrigaïlov.... He had, in short, a

great deal to attend to....

*****

“No, I, I am more to blame than anyone!” said Dounia, kissing and

embracing her mother. “I was tempted by his money, but on my honour,

brother, I had no idea he was such a base man. If I had seen through him

before, nothing would have tempted me! Don’t blame me, brother!”

“God has delivered us! God has delivered us!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna

muttered, but half consciously, as though scarcely able to realise what

had happened.

They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Only now

and then Dounia turned white and frowned, remembering what had passed.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that she, too, was glad:

she had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terrible

misfortune. Razumihin 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. Dounia

could not help thinking that he was still angry with her, and Pulcheria

Alexandrovna watched him timidly.

“What did Svidrigaïlov say to you?” said Dounia, approaching him.

“Yes, yes!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Raskolnikov raised his head.

“He wants to make you a present of ten thousand roubles and he desires

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

Svidrigaïlov, omitting his account of the ghostly visitations of Marfa

Petrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk.

“What answer did you give him?” asked Dounia.

“At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said that

he would do his utmost 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.... His talk

was altogether rather muddled.”

“How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he strike you?”

“I must confess I don’t quite understand him. He offers you ten

thousand, and yet says he is not well off. He says he is going away, and

in ten minutes he forgets he has said it. Then he says he is going to be

married and has already fixed 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 account, once for all. Altogether, I thought him very

strange.... One might almost think he was mad. But I may be mistaken;

that may only be the part he assumes. The death of Marfa Petrovna seems

to have made a great impression on him.”

“God rest her soul,” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I shall always,

always pray for her! Where should we be now, Dounia, without this three

thousand! It’s as though it had fallen from heaven! Why, Rodya, this

morning we had only three roubles in our pocket and Dounia and I were

just planning to pawn her watch, so as to avoid borrowing from that man

until he offered help.”

Dounia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigaïlov’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 disproportionate terror.

“I fancy I shall have to see him more than once again,” he said to

Dounia.

“We will watch him! I will track him out!” cried Razumihin, vigorously.

“I won’t lose sight of him. Rodya has given me leave. He said to me

himself just now. ‘Take care of my sister.’ Will you give me leave, too,

Avdotya Romanovna?”

Dounia 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 roubles had obviously 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. Razumihin was the speaker.

“And why, why should you go away?” he flowed on ecstatically. “And what

are you to 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 into partnership, and I assure you we’ll

plan a capital 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... I tell you what; I have an uncle, I must

introduce him to you (a most accommodating and respectable old man).

This uncle has got a capital of a thousand roubles, and he lives on his

pension and has no need of that 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 Razumihin began to unfold his project, and he explained at length

that almost all our publishers and booksellers know nothing at all

of what they are selling, and for that reason they are usually bad

publishers, and that any decent publications pay as a rule and give

a profit, sometimes a considerable one. Razumihin had, indeed, 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

“schwach” in German with an object of persuading 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 Razumihin warmly. “Of course

there will be a lot of work, but we will work, you, Avdotya Romanovna,

I, Rodion.... You get a splendid profit on some books nowadays! And

the great point of the business is that we shall know just what wants

translating, and we shall be translating, publishing, learning all at

once. I can be of use because I have experience. For nearly two years

I’ve been scuttling about among the publishers, and now I know every

detail of their business. You need not be a saint to make pots, believe

me! And why, why should we let our chance slip! Why, I know--and I kept

the secret--two or three books which one might get a hundred roubles

simply for thinking of translating and publishing. Indeed, and I would

not take five hundred for the very idea of one of them. And 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 trust 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

back our capital.”

Dounia’s eyes shone.

“I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!” 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 remain here at least for a time.” She looked at Rodya.

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

“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 his being able to manage it,

there’s no doubt about that either. He knows the business.... But we can

talk it over later....”

“Hurrah!” cried Razumihin. “Now, stay, there’s a flat here in this

house, belonging to the same owner. It’s a special flat apart, not

communicating with these lodgings. It’s furnished, rent moderate,

three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I’ll pawn your watch

to-morrow and bring you the money, and everything can be arranged then.

You can all three live together, and Rodya will be with you. But where

are you off to, Rodya?”

“What, Rodya, you are going already?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in

dismay.

“At such a minute?” cried Razumihin.

Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. He held his cap in

his hand, he was preparing to leave them.

“One would think you were burying me or saying good-bye for ever,” he

said somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, but it did not turn out a

smile. “But who knows, perhaps it is the last time we shall see each

other...” he let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and it

somehow was uttered aloud.

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

“Where are you going, Rodya?” asked Dounia rather strangely.

“Oh, I’m quite obliged to...” he answered vaguely, as though hesitating

what he would 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, Dounia, that it would be better for us to part for a time. I

feel ill, I am not at peace.... I will come afterwards, I will come of

myself... when it’s possible. I remember you and love you.... Leave me,

leave me alone. I decided this even before... I’m absolutely resolved on

it. Whatever may come to me, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be

alone. Forget me altogether, it’s better. Don’t inquire about me. When

I can, I’ll come of myself or... I’ll send for you. Perhaps it will all

come back, but now if you love me, give me up... else I shall begin to

hate you, I feel it.... Good-bye!”

“Good God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his mother and his sister

were terribly alarmed. Razumihin was also.

“Rodya, Rodya, be reconciled with us! Let us be as before!” cried his

poor mother.

He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the room. Dounia

overtook him.

“Brother, what are you doing to mother?” she whispered, her eyes

flashing with indignation.

He looked dully at her.

“No matter, I shall come.... I’m coming,” he muttered in an undertone,

as though not fully conscious of what he was saying, and he went out of

the room.

“Wicked, heartless egoist!” cried Dounia.

“He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don’t you see it? You’re

heartless after that!” Razumihin whispered in her ear, squeezing

her hand tightly. “I shall be back directly,” he shouted to the

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 to-morrow and always.... I... perhaps I shall

come... if I can. Good-bye.”

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?” Razumihin muttered, at his wits’ end.

Raskolnikov stopped once more.

“Once for all, 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. Razumihin 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 Razumihin 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....

Razumihin 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 Razumihin went back to the ladies,

how he soothed them, how he protested that Rodya needed rest in his

illness, protested that Rodya was sure to come, that he would come every

day, that he was very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated,

that he, Razumihin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, the

best doctor, a consultation.... In fact from that evening Razumihin took

his place with them as a son and a brother.