Crime and Punishment (10 page)

‘I've already mentioned that Pyotr Petrovich is leaving for Petersburg. He has important business there and wants to set up chambers in the city as a private attorney.
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He's had his hands full with various lawsuits for a long time now, and just the other day he won an important victory. Indeed, the reason he has to go to Petersburg is that he has
an important case in the Senate.
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All of which means, dearest Rodya, that he can be extremely useful to you as well, in every way, and Dunya and I have already resolved that, as of today, you can make a definitive start on your future career and consider your destiny to be clearly defined. Would that this came to pass! It would be such a boon that it should be considered nothing less than a direct expression of divine mercy towards us. Dunya dreams only of this. We have already ventured to say a few words on this score to Pyotr Petrovich. He expressed himself with caution and said that since he cannot get by without a secretary it would, of course, be better to pay a salary to a relative than to a stranger, assuming, of course, that the relative proves competent (as if you could ever be incompetent!), but he immediately proceeded to express the concern that your university work may not leave time for work in his office. We left it there, but now Dunya thinks of nothing else. She has been in a kind of fever for several days now and has already sketched everything out: how with time you may become Pyotr Petrovich's colleague and even partner, especially since you are yourself reading law. I fully agree with her, Rodya, and share all her plans and hopes, finding them entirely feasible; and despite Pyotr Petrovich's current and entirely understandable evasiveness (he does not yet know you), Dunya is absolutely confident of achieving everything through her good influence on her future husband – in fact, she's quite sure of it. Of course, we took great care not to let any of these future dreams slip out in conversation with Pyotr Petrovich, especially about your becoming his partner in his legal work. He is a positive type and might not have been best pleased, as all this would have struck him as mere dreaming. In the same way, neither I nor Dunya have breathed a word to him yet of our firm hope that he will help us in giving you financial assistance while you are still studying; we said nothing because, first, this will eventually happen of its own accord anyway and he will probably suggest it himself without wasting too many words (as if he could ever refuse Dunechka in such a matter!), especially now that you may become his right-hand man in the office and receive this assistance not as an act of kindness but as a fully merited salary. This is how Dunechka wishes to arrange things and I fully agree with her. Second, we said nothing because I was particularly keen for you to be on an equal footing with him at our forthcoming meeting. When Dunya sang your praises to him, he replied that in order to judge a man one must first examine him oneself, at close quarters, and that he would prefer to form his own
opinion of you when he meets you. You know, my priceless Rodya, it seems to me that for various reasons (reasons which have nothing to do with Pyotr Petrovich, just my own, personal reasons and perhaps just the whims of an old woman) I might do best to live apart from them once they are married, just as I am living now. I am quite sure that he will be honourable and tactful enough to invite me and to propose that I never be parted again from my daughter, and if he has not said this yet then only because it goes without saying; but I shan't accept. I have observed more than once in life that husbands rarely take mothers-in-law to heart, and not only do I not wish to be the slightest burden to anybody, I also want to be quite free myself, at least for as long as I have a crust of bread to call my own, and children such as you and Dunechka. If possible I will live near both of you, because, Rodya, in this letter I have saved the best till last: know, my darling, that very soon, perhaps, we will be together once more and the three of us shall embrace after nearly three years apart! It has been decided
for a fact
that Dunya and I are leaving for Petersburg; when exactly I do not know, but in any case very, very soon, perhaps even in a week's time. Everything depends on the instructions of Pyotr Petrovich, who will let us know just as soon as he has taken his bearings in Petersburg. He is keen, for various reasons, not to waste any time and to hold the wedding at the earliest opportunity, before the next fast, if at all possible, or failing that, straight after the Feast of Our Lady.
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How happy I will be to press you to my heart! Dunya is jumping for joy at the thought of seeing you and once she even said, for a joke, that this alone would be reason enough to marry Pyotr Petrovich. Such an angel! She is not going to add anything to this letter and merely told me to say that she has so much to speak to you about, so very much, that she is simply unable to pick up a pen, because a few lines are not enough to say anything and one merely succeeds in upsetting oneself; she simply told me to hug you tight and send you countless kisses. But despite the fact that very soon, perhaps, we will be together in person, I will still send you some money in the next day or two, as much as I can. Now that everyone knows that Dunechka is to marry Pyotr Petrovich, my credit has also suddenly increased, and I know for a fact that Afanasy Ivanovich will now trust me, on the strength of my pension, with up to as much as seventy-five roubles, so I may send you twenty-five roubles or even thirty. I would send still more, but our travelling expenses concern me;
and although Pyotr Petrovich has been good enough to stand part of the cost of our journey to the capital, by volunteering, at his own expense, to convey our luggage and a large trunk (through some acquaintance or other), we still need to put something aside for when we actually arrive, at least for the first few days, for one can hardly show up in Petersburg without a copeck. Actually, Dunechka and I have already worked it all out down to the very last detail, and the journey should not cost us too much. It is a mere sixty miles to the railway line from here and, to be on the safe side, we have already made arrangements with a peasant we know who has a cart; from there, Dunechka and I will have ourselves a jolly time in third class. So I may manage to send you not twenty-five but even thirty roubles. But enough. I've covered two sheets of paper from top to bottom and there's no space left. What a story it's been – how many adventures! But now, my priceless Rodya, till soon we meet, I embrace you and give you my maternal blessing. Rodya, love your sister Dunya; love her as she loves you and know that she loves you boundlessly, more than she loves herself. She is an angel, and you, Rodya, you are our everything – our every hope, our every comfort. It is enough for you to be happy for us to be happy, too. Do you still pray, Rodya, and do you believe in the goodness of our creator and redeemer? In my heart I fear: might you, too, have been visited by the faithlessness that is now so fashionable? If so, I pray for you. Remember, dearest, when you were still a child and your father was still with us, how you babbled out your prayers on my knee and how happy we all were! Farewell, or rather –
till soon we meet
!
I hug you close and send countless kisses.

Yours to the grave,

Pulkheria Raskolnikova.'

 • • • 

All the time he was reading, from the very first line of the letter, Raskolnikov's face was wet with tears; but when he finished it was pale and twisted by spasms, and a dismal, bilious, angry smile snaked along his lips. Laying his head on his scraggy, worn-out pillow, he thought and thought. His heart was thumping and his mind was in turmoil. Eventually, he began to feel stifled and cramped in this yellow garret that resembled a cupboard or a trunk. His eyes and mind needed space. He grabbed his hat and went out, this time no longer fearing to meet anyone on the stairs; he'd forgotten all about that. He hurried
off in the direction of Vasilyevsky Island, via V—— Prospect,
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as though he had some urgent business to attend to, but he walked, as was his habit, heedless of the way, whispering to himself and even speaking out loud, which greatly astonished passers-by. Many took him for a drunk.

The letter from his mother had wrung him dry. But he had not a moment's doubt regarding the crucial, fundamental point, even while he was still reading it. The crux of the matter had been resolved in his mind and resolved for good: ‘They'll get married over my dead body, and to hell with Mr Luzhin!

‘For it's all perfectly obvious,' he muttered to himself with a sneer, relishing in advance the successful outcome of his decision. ‘No, Mama, no, Dunya, you won't fool me! . . . They even apologize for not seeking my opinion and for arranging it all without me! I'll say! They think it can't be undone; we'll see about that! What a splendid excuse: “Pyotr Petrovich is such a business-like man,” they say – so terribly business-like, in fact, that he can only get married in a post-chaise or even – why not? – in a railway carriage. No, Dunechka, nothing escapes me and I know what it is you have to talk to me about
so very much
; I also know what it was you thought about all night long as you paced the room, and what you prayed for before the Virgin of Kazan by Mama's bed. Climbing Golgotha is no joke. H'm . . . So, then, it's been definitively decided: you, Avdotya Romanovna,
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are pleased to accept the hand of a business-like and rational man with capital of his own (
already
with capital of his own: that's so much more respectable, so much more impressive), who has two positions, shares the convictions of our newest generations (as Mama writes) and “
seems
kind”, as Dunechka herself observes. That
seems
tops everything! For this
seems
this Dunechka is to be wed! . . . Marvellous! Simply marvellous! . . .

‘... I wonder, though, why Mama wrote to me about those “newest generations”? Was it simply to give me an idea of the man or was there an ulterior motive: to soften me up for the benefit of Mr Luzhin? Oh, sly ones! And there's another thing I'd like to get to the bottom of: to what extent were they open with one another, in the course of that day, that night, and all the days that followed? Was everything
expressed
in so many words
or did each of them realize that they both had the same thing in their hearts and minds, so there was no point saying it all out loud and saying too much. The second, I expect. It's clear from the letter that he struck Mama as
a touch
abrupt, and Mama in her naivety decided to share her observations with Dunya. Naturally, Dunechka got cross and “replied a little peevishly”. I'll say! Who wouldn't get mad when it's all plain as day, without any need for naive questions, and when it's already been decided that there's nothing more to be said. What is it she writes to me: “Rodya, love Dunya, who loves you more than she loves herself”; mightn't this be her conscience secretly gnawing away at her for agreeing to sacrifice her daughter for her son? “You are our comfort, our everything!” Oh, Mama!' He was positively seething with spite, and had he met Mr Luzhin now he might very well have killed him!

‘H'm, it's true,' he continued, following the swarm of thoughts in his head, ‘it's true that “one must take a measured and cautious approach to get to know a person well”; but Mr Luzhin is transparent. Above all, “he is business-like and
seems
kind”: now we mustn't laugh – he's taking care of the luggage and paying for the trunk! Who's to say he isn't kind? And as for those two,
the bride
and the mother, they're hiring some peasant, in a cart with bast matting (that's how I used to travel, after all)! They'll manage! A mere sixty miles, “then we'll have ourselves a jolly time in third class” for some six hundred more. Makes perfect sense: cut your coat to suit your cloth; but how about you, Mr Luzhin? This is your betrothed, after all . . . Surely you must have known that Mother was borrowing for the journey against her pension? Of course, this is a joint commercial venture, with split profits and equal shares, so the outlay is also half-and-half; friendship is one thing, business another. Still, here too the business-like man has sold them short: the luggage is cheaper than their fare and it might even travel for free. Do they really not see this or don't they want to see it? Yet they're content, quite content! And that's only the start of it – the best is still to come! After all, the main point here is not the stinginess, not the avarice, but the
tone
of it all. This is the tone of their future marriage, a sign of things to come . . . But what's Mama doing living the fast life anyway? What will she show up in Petersburg with? Three roubles or two “nice little notes”, as that woman likes to say . . . the old one . . . H'm! What on earth does she expect to live on in Petersburg? After all, she's already
managed to work out, for whatever reason, that it will be
impossible
for her and Dunya to live together after the wedding, even only at the beginning. I expect that our nice chap
said too much
on this score and gave himself away, though Mama rushes to deny it: “I shan't accept,” she says. What is she thinking, and who or what is she counting on: her
120-
rouble pension, minus her debt to Afanasy Ivanovich? There she is knitting winter shawls, sewing cuffs, ruining her rheumy eyes. But I know for a fact that the shawls only bring in another twenty roubles a year. So they must be counting on Mr Luzhin's noble feelings after all: “He'll make the offer himself, he'll insist.” Don't hold your breath! That's always the way with these beautiful souls steeped in Schiller:
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until the very last moment they dress man up in peacock feathers, until the very last moment they count on good, not ill, and despite their creeping suspicions they won't admit anything to themselves in advance; the very thought disagrees with them and they'll rush to deny the truth until their noses are rubbed in it by the man they've so richly adorned. H'm, I wonder whether Mr Luzhin's been decorated. I bet he's got St Anna in his buttonhole
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and that he wears it to merchants' dinners. He'll probably wear it to his own wedding! But to hell with him!

‘... I suppose that's just how Mama is, God bless her, but what about Dunya? Dunechka, dearest, I know you! You'd already turned nineteen when we saw each other last: your character was already clear to me. Here's Mama writing that “Dunechka can put up with a lot.” I was well aware of the fact. I was aware of it two and a half years ago and I've been thinking about it ever since, about the very fact that “Dunechka can put up with a lot.” I mean, if she can put up with Mr Svidrigailov and all the consequences, then she really can put up with a lot. And now, with Mama's help, she's conceived the notion that she can also put up with Mr Luzhin, who likes to hold forth about the superiority of wives rescued from beggary, with benefactors for husbands, and who does so virtually on first acquaintance. Let's suppose that he did “say too much”, despite his being a rational man (so perhaps, far from saying too much, he was actually in a hurry to spell everything out), but what about Dunya for heaven's sake? The man's transparent, but she'll still have to live with him. I mean, she would sooner live on black bread and water than sell her soul, let alone give up her moral freedom for a life of comfort; she wouldn't give it up for all Schleswig-Holstein,
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never mind Mr Luzhin. No, that wasn't the Dunya I knew,
and . . . well, that's not Dunya now! . . . Who can deny it? It's a hard life with the likes of Svidrigailov! A hard life traipsing from one province to another, year in, year out, in search of governess jobs paying two hundred roubles, but still, I know that my sister would sooner join Negroes on a plantation, or Latvians
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in the pay of a Baltic German, than corrupt her spirit and her moral sense through a liaison with a man she doesn't respect and has nothing in common with – for evermore, and for no other reason than personal gain! And even if Mr Luzhin were made of the purest gold or of solid diamond, even then she would not agree to be Mr Luzhin's lawful concubine. So why does she agree now? What's it all about? Where's the key to the mystery? It's clear enough: she won't sell herself for her own interests, her own comfort, or even to save her skin, but she'll sell herself for someone else! For someone dear to her, someone she adores! That's what it's all about: her brother, her mother – that's what she'll sell herself for! Sell all she's got! Oh yes, we won't stop at anything here, we'll even stifle our sense of right and wrong; freedom, peace of mind, conscience – we'll barter them all! Life be hanged, so long as our precious loved ones are happy! We'll even indulge in some casuistry of our own, take lessons from the Jesuits,
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and for a while we might even set our minds at rest, convince ourselves that it's all in a good cause and there's no other way. That's what we're like, and it's all clear as day. It's clear who's centre stage here: Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov and no one else. Just think: what a chance to make him happy, to keep him in university, to make him a partner at the office, to secure his entire future; one day he might even become wealthy and respected, and end his life a famous man! And Mother? But this is Rodya, priceless Rodya, firstborn! No sacrifice is too great for such a son – not even that of a daughter like Dunya! Oh, sweet and unjust hearts! Even Sonechka's fate is not to be scorned here! Sonechka, Sonechka Marmeladova, eternal Sonechka, for as long as the world stands! But have you both weighed it carefully, this sacrifice of yours? Yes? Is it bearable? Profitable? Reasonable? Do you know, Dunechka, that Sonechka's fate is no more sordid than the fate of being with Mr Luzhin? “Love is out of the question here,” writes Mama. But what if it's not just love that's out of the question, but respect as well, and what if instead of that there's disgust, contempt, loathing – what then? Well, once again it will be a case of being “
immaculate
”. Wouldn't you say? Do you understand what it means to be immaculate in this way – do you? Do you understand that being immaculate the Luzhin way is just
the same as the Sonya way, but perhaps even worse, even more vile and despicable, because after all, Dunechka, you're counting on a life of comfort, while there it's simply a matter of survival or starvation! “It costs a lot to be immaculate, Dunechka, a lot!” And what if later it should all prove too much and you repent? How much sorrow and sadness, how much cursing and secret weeping, because you're no Marfa Petrovna, are you? And what will happen to Mother then? She's unsettled and anxious even now; but what then, when the scales fall from her eyes? And me? . . . Whatever must you have thought of me? I don't want your sacrifice, Dunechka, I don't want it, Mama! Over my dead body! I don't accept it! I won't accept it!'

He suddenly came to his senses and broke off.

‘Over your dead body? And what will you do to stop it happening? Forbid it? What right do you have? What can you promise them in return, so as to have such a right? That you will dedicate your entire fate to them, your entire future,
when you complete your studies and receive a position
? We've heard all that, it's all ifs and buts; what about now? Something has to be done here and now, do you understand? And what are you doing now? Fleecing them. You know the money comes from a hundred-rouble pension and from the Svidrigailovs' advance! How will you protect them from the Svidrigailovs, or from Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, you millionaire of the future, you Zeus, you master of their fate? In ten years' time? But ten years will be more than enough for your mother to go blind knitting shawls, if tears alone are not enough; she'll wither away on bread and water. And your sister? Just think what may come of her in ten years or less? Worked it out yet?'

He taunted and tortured himself with such questions, and even found some pleasure in doing so. These questions were not new, though, and they didn't come from nowhere; they were old, ancient sources of pain. They had begun tearing at his heart long before and had torn it to pieces. All his current anguish had taken root in him in the far distant past, grown and accreted, until now it had ripened and distilled into the form of a dreadful, wild, fantastical question which had worn out his heart and mind, demanding to be solved. His mother's letter struck him with the sudden force of thunder. Clearly, now was not the time for agonizing and passive suffering, for mere deliberation about the fact that the questions permitted no solution; something had to be done, the
sooner the better. He had to decide at all costs on something, anything, or else . . .

‘Or else renounce life completely!' he suddenly cried in sheer frenzy. ‘Meekly accept fate as it is, once and for all, and stifle everything inside me, renouncing any right to act, to live, to love!'

‘Do you really understand, good sir, what it means to have nowhere left to go?' The question put to him yesterday by Marmeladov suddenly came to mind. ‘For every man must have at least somewhere he can go . . .'

He gave a sudden start: one of yesterday's thoughts had shot through his mind once again. But it was not the speed of it that made him start. After all, he had known, he had
sensed
, that the thought would, without fail, come ‘shooting through', and he was already expecting it; and this thought had hardly been born yesterday. The difference was this: a month ago, and even just yesterday, it was no more than a dream, while now . . . now it suddenly presented itself to him not as a dream, but in a new, threatening and quite unfamiliar form, and he'd suddenly realized this himself . . . It was like a blow to the head, and his eyes went dark.

He glanced about him in haste, looking for something. He felt like sitting down and looked for a bench; he was walking down K——Boulevard
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at the time. A bench appeared some hundred paces away. He quickened his step as best he could; but one small incident occurred along the way, absorbing all his attention for several minutes.