Crime and Punishment (40 page)

‘Quite so, Avdotya Romanovna,' said Pyotr Petrovich in an imposing tone, sitting back down, though still holding on to his hat. ‘I did indeed have matters to discuss with you, and with your much-esteemed mama, even some of the highest importance. But just as your brother is unable to discuss in my presence certain of Mr Svidrigailov's proposals, so too am I unwilling and unable to discuss . . . in the presence of others . . . certain matters of the highest, highest importance. Besides, my fundamental and most earnest request was not heeded . . .'

Looking most aggrieved, Luzhin lapsed into dignified silence.

‘Your request that my brother not attend our meeting has not been heeded solely at my insistence,' said Dunya. ‘You wrote that my brother had insulted you. I believe that this must be cleared up immediately and you should make your peace. And if Rodya really did insult you, then he
should
and
shall
apologize.'

This was all the encouragement Pyotr Petrovich needed.

‘There are certain insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which, with the best will in the world, cannot be forgotten. There is always a mark which it is too dangerous to overstep, for, once overstepped, there can be no return.'

‘That's not what I was getting at, Pyotr Petrovich,' Dunya interrupted a little impatiently. ‘Please understand that our whole future
now depends on whether or not all this can be cleared up and settled as quickly as possible. I am telling you bluntly, from the outset, that I can take no other view of the matter, and if you prize me at all, then, however hard it may be, this entire episode must end today. I repeat: if my brother is to blame, he will ask your forgiveness.'

‘I am astonished to hear you frame the question in this way, Avdotya Romanovna,' Luzhin replied, his irritation mounting with every word. ‘While valuing and, as it were, adoring you, I am perfectly, perfectly capable of not liking a member of your family. Aspiring to the happiness of your hand, I am unable at one and the same time to take upon myself incompatible obligations . . .'

‘Oh, enough of all this touchiness, Pyotr Petrovich,' Dunya interrupted hotly, ‘and be that intelligent and noble man I always considered – and still wish to consider – you to be. I made you a great promise – I am your bride. So trust me in this matter and trust that I shall be able to judge without bias. My role as arbiter is as much of a surprise to my brother as it is to you. When I asked him today, after receiving your letter, to be sure to attend our meeting, I said nothing of my intentions. Please understand that if you do not make your peace I will have to choose between you: either you or him. That is how the question stands, on both his side and yours. I do not wish to make the wrong choice and must not do so. For you I must break off with my brother; for my brother I must break off with you. Now is my chance to find out for sure: is he a brother to me? And as for you: am I dear to you? Do you value me? Are you a husband to me?'

‘Avdotya Romanovna,' said Luzhin, taken aback, ‘your words are too rich in meaning, I would even say hurtful, in view of the position I am honoured to hold in relation to you. Quite aside from the hurtful and strange decision to put me on a level with . . . an arrogant youth, your words permit the possibility of your breaking the promise you gave me. “Either you or him,” you say, thereby showing me how little I mean to you . . . I can hardly allow this in view of the relations and . . . obligations that exist between us.'

‘What?' flared Dunya. ‘I place your interests alongside everything I have ever held dearest, everything that my
whole
life
has consisted of until now, and you suddenly take offence because I hold you too
cheap
!'

Raskolnikov said nothing and sneered; Razumikhin's whole body jerked. But Pyotr Petrovich did not accept the criticism; on the contrary,
he became ever more captious and irritable, almost as if he'd begun to enjoy it.

‘Love for one's future partner in life, for one's husband, should exceed love for one's brother,' he sententiously began, ‘and in any case, I cannot be put on the same level . . . Even though I previously insisted that I did not wish to say what I have come to say in the presence of your brother, and could not do so, nevertheless I now intend to turn to your much-esteemed mother for an essential clarification of one highly fundamental and, to me, offensive point. Your son,' he said, turning to Pulkheria Alexandrovna, ‘yesterday, in the presence of Mr Rassudkin (is that your surname? Sorry, it seems to have slipped my mind)' – he said to Razumikhin
10
with a courteous bow – ‘offended me by distorting a thought I once shared with you during a private conversation over coffee: namely, that marriage to a poor girl who has already tasted life's woes is, to my mind, of greater profit from the conjugal point of view than marriage to one who has only tasted plenty, being of greater benefit to morality. Your son purposely exaggerated my meaning to the point of absurdity, charging me with malicious intentions and, as far as I can see, basing his remarks on your own correspondence. I will consider myself happy, Pulkheria Alexandrovna, if you can disabuse me to the contrary and thus go some way to reassuring me. So tell me: what were the exact terms in which you conveyed my words in your letter to Rodion Romanovich?'

‘I don't remember,' came Pulkheria Alexandrovna's faltering reply. ‘I conveyed them as I understood them. I don't know how Rodya conveyed them to you . . . Perhaps he did exaggerate something.'

‘He couldn't have exaggerated anything without your prompting.'

‘Pyotr Petrovich,' answered Pulkheria Alexandrovna, ‘the very fact that we are
here
is proof that Dunya and I did not take your words so amiss.'

‘Well said, dear Mama!' remarked Dunya.

‘So this is my fault, too?'

‘Now listen, Pyotr Petrovich, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself wrote an untruth about him in your letter earlier,' added an emboldened Pulkheria Alexandrovna.

‘I don't recall writing any untruths, ma'am.'

‘You wrote,' said Raskolnikov sharply, without turning towards Luzhin, ‘that yesterday I gave the money away not to the widow of the
man who'd been trampled, which was what actually happened, but to his daughter (whom I'd never seen before). You wrote that to set me at odds with my family, which is why you added those loathsome words about the behaviour of a girl you do not know. It's all just gossip, despicable gossip.'

‘Excuse me, sir,' replied Luzhin, shaking with fury, ‘the sole reason I enlarged upon your qualities and actions was to satisfy thereby the request of your sister and mama to describe for them the state in which I found you and the impression you made on me. As regards the aforementioned part of my letter, I challenge you to find in it a single unfair sentence – did you not spend all the money? And in that family, however unfortunate, were there not unworthy persons?'

‘You yourself, for all your qualities, are not worth the little finger of the unfortunate girl at whom you are casting stones.'

‘So you'd dare bring her into the company of your mother and sister, I suppose?'

‘I've already done so, if you must know. Today I sat her down next to Mama and Dunya.'

‘Rodya!' cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna.

Dunechka reddened; Razumikhin knit his brows. Luzhin gave a sneering, supercilious smile.

‘You may judge for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,' he said, ‘whether there is any scope for agreement here. I trust that this business is now finished and clarified, once and for all. I shall make myself scarce so as not to impede the further enjoyment of your family gathering and the sharing of secrets.' (He rose from his chair and took his hat.) ‘But before I leave, I venture to remark that I hope to be spared any more such meetings and, as it were, further compromise. My request is addressed above all to you, much-esteemed Pulkheria Alexandrovna, especially as my letter was also addressed to you and not to any other party.'

Pulkheria Alexandrovna was somewhat offended.

‘It seems that you want us completely under your thumb, Pyotr Petrovich. Dunya told you the reason why your wish was not heeded: she acted with the best intentions. And you write to me as if you were giving orders. Must we really consider your every wish an order? If you ask me, you ought to be going out of your way to be sensitive and indulgent towards us, seeing that we've trusted you and dropped everything to come here – we're almost under your thumb as it is.'

‘That is not entirely fair, Pulkheria Alexandrovna, and especially
at the present moment, following the announcement of the three thousand left by Marfa Petrovna – which appears to have been most timely, to judge by the new tone you've taken towards me,' he added with venom.

‘To judge by this remark, one might indeed assume that you were counting on our helplessness,' snapped Dunya.

‘That, at any rate, is something I can no longer count on, and I certainly do not wish to impede the communication of the secret proposals with which Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov has entrusted your brother and which, I see, are of fundamental and, perhaps, highly agreeable significance to you.'

‘Good grief!' shrieked Pulkheria Alexandrovna.

Razumikhin just couldn't sit still.

‘And you're not ashamed now, sister?' asked Raskolnikov.

‘I am, Rodya,' said Dunya. ‘Pyotr Petrovich, get out!' She was white with rage.

Such a conclusion, it seems, was the last thing Pyotr Petrovich had expected. 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 began to tremble.

‘Avdotya Romanovna, if I leave this room now, with these words ringing in my ears, then make no mistake: I will never come back. So think about it! I mean what I say.'

‘The cheek!' cried Dunya, swiftly rising from her seat. ‘As if I want you to come back!'

‘What? Well, well, we-e-ell!' cried Luzhin, unable to believe, until the very last moment, that such an outcome was possible, and losing his thread entirely as a result. ‘Well, well, miss! But you know, Avdotya Romanovna, I may have something to say about this.'

‘What right have you to speak to her like that?' Pulkheria Alexandrovna burst in. ‘And what on earth can you have to say about it? What are these rights of yours? Do you really think I will give my Dunya to a man like you? Get out and don't come back! We ourselves are to blame for going along with this wrongful business, I more than anyone . . .'

‘Nevertheless, Pulkheria Alexandrovna,' raged Luzhin, ‘you have bound me with a promise you now renounce . . . not to mention . . . not to mention the fact that I have incurred, as it were, certain expenses . . .'

This final reproof was so characteristic of Pyotr Petrovich that Raskolnikov, who'd gone pale with rage and with the effort of restraining
himself, suddenly roared with laughter. But Pulkheria Alexandrovna was beside herself:

‘Expenses? And what would they be? You don't mean our trunk, I hope? You got the conductor to take it for free! Good Lord – we bound you, did we? Come to your senses, Pyotr Petrovich – you bound us hand and foot, not the other way round!'

‘Enough, dear Mama, enough!' pleaded Avdotya Romanovna. ‘Pyotr Petrovich, be so good as to leave!'

‘I'm leaving, young lady, but just one last thing!' he said, losing almost all self-control. ‘Your mama seems to have quite forgotten that I chose you, as it were, after the rumours concerning your reputation had circulated around town and spread through every house in the neighbourhood. In disregarding public opinion for your sake and restoring your reputation, I surely, surely could have entertained every hope of compensation and even demanded your gratitude . . . Only now have my eyes been opened! I see myself that I may have acted all too hastily – all too hastily – in disregarding the voice of society . . .'

‘Is he mad?' shouted Razumikhin, leaping from his chair and preparing to take matters into his own hands.

‘You are a despicable and evil man!' said Dunya.

‘Silence! Stay right there!' yelled Raskolnikov, restraining Razumikhin; then, walking right up to Luzhin:

‘Kindly get out!' he said quietly and distinctly. ‘And not another word, or else . . .'

Pyotr Petrovich looked at him for a few seconds, his face white and twisted with fury, then turned and left, and it hardly needs saying that few men can ever have carried away so much spite and hatred in their hearts as this man bore towards Raskolnikov. He blamed him and him alone for everything. And, remarkably enough, even as he was going down the stairs he still imagined that this whole business was by no means lost and, as far as the ladies were concerned, could still ‘perfectly, perfectly well' be saved.

The main point was that, until the very last moment, such an outcome was the last thing he'd ever expected. He'd blustered all the way to the end, never even recognizing the possibility that two penniless and defenceless women could escape from under his thumb. He was greatly
assisted in this certainty by his vanity and that degree of self-confidence which may best be described as narcissism. Pyotr Petrovich, a nobody made good, had a morbid habit of admiring himself, thought highly of his own intelligence and ability, and sometimes, when alone, even admired his own face in the mirror. But what he loved and valued most in the world was his own money, gained by labour and every means available: it made him the equal of whatever was above him.

Reminding Dunya just now, with bitterness, that he'd resolved to take her despite all the bad things said about her, Pyotr Petrovich had spoken with complete sincerity and even felt a deep indignation at such ‘rank ingratitude'. And yet, when seeking Dunya's hand in marriage, he'd had no doubt about the absurdity of all this tittle-tattle, which had been publicly refuted by Marfa Petrovna herself and which had long been dismissed by all the townsfolk, who defended Dunya ardently. In fact, even now he would not have denied having already known all this then. Yet still he continued to think highly of his determination to raise Dunya to his level and considered it something of a feat. In telling Dunya about this now, he was giving expression to a secret, cherished thought, which he had found himself admiring more than once; indeed, it was quite beyond him how anyone could fail to admire his exploit. Paying a visit to Raskolnikov that time, he had felt like a benefactor come to reap his harvest and to hear some quite delicious compliments. Now, of course, walking down the stairs, he felt utterly offended and unappreciated.

He simply had to have Dunya; giving her up was unthinkable. He'd been dreaming fondly of marriage for several years already, but all he'd done was save up money and wait. In deepest secrecy, he'd thrilled at the thought of a young maiden who was virtuous and poor (the latter was essential), very young and very pretty, noble and educated, timid to the core, someone with endless misfortunes behind her, who'd prostrate herself before him, consider him her saviour her whole life long, revere him, submit to him, marvel at him – at him alone. How many scenes, how many delightful episodes had he created in his imagination on this alluring and frolicsome theme, while resting from his affairs! And now the dream of so many years had almost come true: Avdotya Romanovna's beauty and education astonished him; her helpless plight excited him beyond measure. Reality was even outstripping his dreams: a proud girl of character and virtue, his superior (so he felt) in education and intellectual maturity – and
just such a creature would be slavishly grateful to him all life long for his exploit and abase herself before him in veneration, and he would reign supreme without let or hindrance! . . . Only recently, after much deliberation, as if right on cue, he had finally decided to change career for good and enter a broader sphere of activity, in the hope of working his way up in society, something he'd long been thinking about with voluptuous pleasure . . . In a word, he had made up his mind to try his luck in Petersburg. He knew that it was ‘perfectly, perfectly' possible to gain a great deal through women. The charms of an adorable, virtuous and educated woman could smooth his path quite remarkably, attract others to him, create an aura . . . and now the whole thing had collapsed! This sudden, hideous rift hit him like a thunderstroke. A hideous joke, that's what it was. An absurdity! He'd only blustered a little. He hadn't even managed to say all he wanted to say. He'd merely joked, got carried away, and look how it had ended! Not to mention the fact that he'd even come to love Dunya after his own fashion; indeed, he was already reigning over her in his dreams – when suddenly! . . . No! The next day at the very latest all this had to be recovered, healed, put right and, above all – this arrogant mummy's boy who was the cause of it all had to be destroyed. With a sickening sensation he was reminded, somewhat against his will, of Razumikhin . . . but he quickly reassured himself: ‘As if I have to measure myself against him as well!' If there was one man he was seriously afraid of, it was not him, but Svidrigailov . . . In short, he had his hands full . . .

 • • • 

‘No, the person most to blame here is me, me!' Dunechka was saying, hugging and kissing her mother. ‘I was tempted by his money, but I swear, brother, I never imagined him to be such an unworthy man. If only I'd seen through him earlier, I'd never have been tempted! Don't blame me, brother!'

‘God has saved us!' Pulkheria Alexandrovna muttered, but almost unconsciously, as if she still hadn't grasped what had just taken place.

Everyone rejoiced. Five minutes later they were even laughing. Only Dunechka would occasionally turn pale and knit her brow, recalling all that had happened. Pulkheria Alexandrovna could never have imagined that she, too, would be happy; only that morning a rift with Luzhin had still seemed a terrible catastrophe. But Razumikhin was ecstatic. He didn't dare show it fully yet, but he was shaking all
over as if in a fever, as if a two-hundred-pound weight had been lifted from his heart. Now he had the right to give up his whole life to them, serve them . . . Anything was possible! But he was even warier now of thinking too far ahead, he was scared of his own imaginings. Raskolnikov, alone, was still sitting in the same place, almost sullen and even distracted. He, who had insisted more than anyone on getting rid of Luzhin, now seemed the least interested in what had occurred. Dunya couldn't help feeling he was still very angry with her, while Pulkheria Alexandrovna studied him timidly.

‘So what did Svidrigailov say to you?' Dunya asked, walking over to him.

‘Oh yes, yes!' cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna.

Raskolnikov lifted his head:

‘He's determined to give you ten thousand roubles and expresses his desire to see you once, in my presence.'

‘See you? Not for the world!' cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘And how dare he offer her money?'

Next, Raskolnikov related (rather stiffly) his conversation with Svidrigailov, omitting Marfa Petrovna's ghosts so as to avoid digression and feeling revolted by the thought of any but the most essential conversation.

‘So what did you reply?' asked Dunya.

‘First, I said I wouldn't pass any of this on to you. Then he announced he would seek a meeting himself by every means at his disposal. He assured me that his passion for you was merely a whim and that he feels nothing for you now . . . He doesn't want you to marry Luzhin . . . In general, he wasn't all that coherent.'

‘What do you make of him, Rodya? How did he seem to you?'

‘Frankly, none of it makes much sense to me. He's offering ten thousand, but says he's not rich. Declares a desire to take off somewhere or other, but forgets having said it ten minutes later. Then he suddenly says he wants to get married and that a bride's already being arranged . . . He's got his reasons, of course, most likely bad ones. But then again, it's rather strange to think of him going about it all so stupidly if he has bad intentions towards you . . . Needless to say, I refused the money on your behalf, once and for all. On the whole he struck me as very strange and even . . . in some respects . . . almost insane. But I may well be mistaken, and it might all just be some kind of hoax. Marfa Petrovna's death is affecting him, it seems . . .'

‘God rest her soul!' exclaimed Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘I shall never, ever cease praying for her! I mean, what would have become of us now, Dunya, without these three thousand? Good grief – they just fell from the sky! Oh, Rodya, this morning Dunechka and I only had three roubles between us and our only hope was to hurry up and pawn the watch somewhere, so as not to have to ask anything from that man until he worked it out for himself.'

Dunya seemed almost stunned by Svidrigailov's proposal. She stood where she was, plunged in thought.

‘He's planning something, something horrid!' she said almost under her breath, all but shuddering.

Raskolnikov noticed her immoderate fear.

‘That won't be the last I see of him, I suppose,' he told Dunya.

‘We'll follow him! I'll track him down!' shouted Razumikhin with vigour. ‘I won't take my eyes off him! Rodya has allowed me to. “Protect my sister!” he told me just now. But will you allow me, Avdotya Romanovna?'

Dunya smiled and held out her hand to him, but her face remained troubled. Pulkheria Alexandrovna stole timid glances at her; she was clearly comforted, though, by the three thousand roubles.

A quarter of an hour later the conversation was at its height. For a while even Raskolnikov, though taking no part, listened attentively. Razumikhin was holding forth, the words pouring out of him with rapturous emotion.

‘Why on earth would you leave? And what will you find to do in that provincial town? You're all here together, that's the main thing, and you all need each other, goodness knows how badly – can't you see? For a while, at least . . . Take me as your friend, your partner, and I assure you we'll start an excellent business! Let me set it all out to you in detail – the whole plan! Even this morning, before any of this happened, it was taking shape in my head . . . Here it is: I have an uncle (I'll introduce you – he's an exceedingly obliging and exceedingly respectable old so-and-so) and this uncle of mine has a capital of a thousand roubles – which he doesn't need, as he lives off his pension. This is the second year he's been badgering me to take this thousand off him and pay him six per cent interest. I won't be fooled: he just wants to help me. Last year I had no need of it, but this year I was just waiting for him to arrive and made up my mind to take it. If you put in
another thousand, from your three, that's enough to begin with, enough for us to join forces. And what will we be doing exactly?'

Here, Razumikhin started setting out his plan, explaining at great length how ignorant nearly all our booksellers and publishers are about their goods, which is why they usually make bad publishers, while decent editions pay their way and even turn a profit, sometimes a quite considerable one. A career in publishing was Razumikhin's dream. He'd already spent two years working for other people and was competent in three European languages, despite the fact that six days or so before he tried telling Raskolnikov that his German was ‘hopeless', in the hope of persuading him to accept half a translating job and three roubles up front; he was lying then, and Raskolnikov knew it.

‘Why, I ask you, should we not seize our chance, now that we have that most essential thing – our own money?' Razumikhin went on in the greatest excitement. ‘Of course, there's lots to be done, but we'll work hard: you, Avdotya Romanovna, me, Rodion . . . nowadays, some books turn a splendid profit! And we'll base our business on the fact that we know exactly what needs translating. We'll translate and publish and study, all at the same time. With some experience behind me, I can actually make myself useful now. I've been running from one publisher to another for nigh on two years and I know how they work: they're no better than the rest of us, believe you me! And why look a gift horse in the mouth? I already have two or three books up my sleeve: the very thought of translating them is worth a hundred roubles per book, and there's one idea I wouldn't part with if I was offered five hundred. But even if I did tell someone, they'd probably think twice, the idiots! And as for the practical side of things – the printers, paper, sales – you can leave that to me! I know all the ins and outs! We'll start small, we'll grow big – we won't go hungry, that's for sure, and at the very least we'll break even.'

Dunya's eyes were shining.

‘I like what you say very much, Dmitry Prokofich,' she remarked.

‘I don't know the first thing about it, of course,' Pulkheria Alexandrovna put in. ‘Maybe it's a good thing, although, who knows? It's all a bit new, a bit uncertain. Of course, we do have to stay on here, at least for a while . . .'

She looked at Rodya.

‘What do you think, brother?' said Dunya.

‘I think he's onto a very good thing,' he replied. ‘It's much too early to be dreaming of a firm, of course, but five or six books could indeed be published with certain success. I myself know one book that would definitely be suitable. And as for his ability to make it work, there's little doubt about that either: he knows what he's about . . . Anyway, you'll have plenty of time to arrange everything . . .'

‘Hurrah!' shouted Razumikhin. ‘Now wait: there's an apartment here, in this very building, the very same landlords. It's separate and doesn't connect with this part. It's furnished, moderately priced, three rooms. You should move in there for the time being. I'll pawn the watch for you tomorrow and bring the money, and the rest will take care of itself. The main thing is, the three of you can all live together, with Rodya . . . But where are you off to, Rodya?'

‘You're not leaving already, Rodya, are you?' asked Pulkheria Alexandrovna in alarm.

‘At such a moment!' shouted Razumikhin.

Dunya looked at her brother with mistrust and amazement. His cap was in his hand; he was ready to leave.

‘Anyone would think you were burying me or saying goodbye for good,' he said, rather strangely.

He seemed to smile, though a smile was the last thing it seemed.

‘But then – who knows? – perhaps we are seeing each other for the last time,' he added, just like that.

He meant to keep this thought to himself, but somehow it came out of its own accord.

‘What on earth's the matter with you?' his mother shrieked.