Part Five 3 страница

“No, it's my fault most of all! ” Dunechka was saying, embracing and kissing her mother. “I was tempted by his money, but I swear, brother—I never imagined he could be such an unworthy man. If I had seen through him sooner, I would never have been tempted! Don't blame me, brother! ”

“God has delivered us! God has delivered us! ” Pulcheria Alexandrovna muttered, but somehow unconsciously, as if she had not quite made sense of all that had happened.

They were all rejoicing; in five minutes they were even laughing. Only Dunechka occasionally became pale and knitted her brows, thinking back on what had happened. Pulcheria Alexandrovna would never have imagined that she, too, could be so glad; even that morning a breakup with Luzhin had seemed to her a terrible disaster. But Razumikhin was in ecstasy. He did not yet dare to express it fully, but was trembling all over as in a fever, as if a two-hundred-pound weight had fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to give his whole life to them, to serve them. .. And who knew what then! However, he drove all further thoughts away still more timorously, and was afraid of his own imagination. Only Raskolnikov went on sitting in the same place, almost sullen, even distracted. He who had insisted most on Luzhin's removal, now seemed to be the least interested in what had happened. Dunya thought unwillingly that he was still very angry with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna kept looking at him fearfully.

“So, what did Svidrigailov say? ” Dunya went over to him.

“Ah, yes, yes! ” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Raskolnikov raised his head.

“He insists on making you a gift of ten thousand roubles, and at the same time says he wishes to see you once more, in my presence. ”

“To see her! Not for anything in the world! ” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out. “And how dare he offer her money! ”

Then Raskolnikov related (rather dryly) his conversation with Svidrigailov, omitting Marfa Petrovna's ghosts, so as not to go into superfluous matters, and feeling disgusted at starting any conversation at all beyond the most necessary.

“And what answer did you give him? ” asked Dunya.

“First I said I wouldn't tell you anything. Then he said he would use every means possible to seek a meeting himself. He insisted that his passion for you was a whim, and that he now feels nothing for you... He does not want you to marry Luzhin... Generally, he was not very consistent. ”

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

“I confess I don't understand any of it very well. He offers ten thousand, while saying he's not rich. He announces that he wants to go away somewhere, and ten minutes later forgets that he mentioned it. Suddenly he also says he wants to get married, and that a match has already been made for him... He has his purposes, of course—bad ones, most likely. Then again, it's somehow strange to suppose he'd approach this matter so stupidly, if he had bad intentions towards you... Of course, I refused this money on your behalf, once and for all. Generally, he seemed very strange to me, and... even... as if he showed signs of madness. But I could just as well be mistaken; there might simply be some sort of hoodwinking going on here. Marfa Petrovna's death seems to have made its impression on him. . . ”

“Lord rest her soul! ” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I will pray to God for her eternally, eternally! Where would we be now, Dunya, without those three thousand roubles! Lord, just as though they fell from heaven! Ah, Rodya, this morning we had all of three roubles to our name, and were thinking, Dunya and I, of quickly pawning the watch somewhere, if only so as not to take anything from that man until he thought of it himself. ”

Dunya was somehow all too struck by Svidrigailov's offer. She was still standing deep in thought.

“He's contemplating something horrible! ” she said to herself, almost in a whisper, all but shuddering.

Raskolnikov noticed this excessive fear.

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

“We'll keep an eye on him! I'll stay on his trail! ” Razumikhin cried energetically. “I won't let him out of my sight! Rodya gave me his permission. He told me himself today: 'Protect my sister. ' And do I have your permission, Avdotya Romanovna? ”

Dunya smiled and gave him her hand, but the worry would not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna kept glancing at her timidly; however, the three thousand had obviously set her at ease.

A quarter of an hour later they were all in a most animated conversation. Even Raskolnikov, though he did not speak, listened attentively for some time. Razumikhin was holding forth.

“But why, why would you leave! ” he overflowed rapturously in his ecstatic speech. “What are you going to do in a wretched little town? The main thing is that you're all together here, and you need one another—oh, you do need one another, believe me! Well, at least for the time being... Take me as a friend, a partner, and I assure you we can start an excellent enterprise. Listen, I'll explain it all to you in detail—the whole project! This morning, when nothing had happened yet, it was already flashing in my head... The point is this: I have an uncle (I'll introduce him to you; a most agreeable, most respectable old codger! ), and this uncle has a capital of a thousand roubles; he himself lives on his pension and wants for nothing. For two years now he's been pestering me to take the thousand from him and pay him six percent on it. I see what he's up to: he simply wants to help me out. Last year I didn't need it, but this year I was just waiting for him to come and decided I'd take it. Then you can give another thousand out of your three; that way we'll have enough to start with, and so we'll join together. And what is it we're going to do? ”

Here Razumikhin began developing his project, and spoke at length about how almost all our booksellers and publishers have little feeling for their wares, and are therefore also bad publishers, whereas decent publications generally pay for themselves and bring in a profit, sometimes a considerable one. And so Razumikhin's dream was to go into publishing, since he had already spent two years working for others, and knew three European languages quite well, though he had told Raskolnikov six days ago that his German was “kaput, “ with the aim of convincing him to take half of his translation work and three roubles of the advance; not only was he lying then, but Raskolnikov had known that he was lying.

“Why, why should we let the chance slip, when we happen to have one of the main essentials—our own money? ” Razumikhin was becoming excited. “Of course, it means a lot of work, but we will work—you, Avdotya Romanovna, and I, and Rodion... some books bring in a nice profit nowadays! And the main basis of the enterprise will be that we'll know precisely what to translate. We'll translate, and publish, and study, all at the same time. I can be useful here, because I've got experience. I've been poking around among publishers for nearly two years now; I know all the ins and outs—and there's no need for the divine spark, believe me! Why, why should we let the spoon miss our mouth? I myself know—I've been keeping it a secret—of two or three works that would bring a hundred roubles each just for the idea of translating and publishing them; as for one of them, I wouldn't sell the idea even for five hundred roubles. And you know, if I were to tell someone, he might just doubt it—blockheads that they are! As for the business end proper—typographers, paper, sales—you can leave that to me! I know all the ropes! We'll start little by little and wind up with something big; at least we'll have enough to eat, and in any case we'll get back what we put in. ”

Dunya's eyes were shining.

“I like what you're saying very much, Dmitri Prokofych, ” she said.

“I know nothing about it, of course, ” Pulcheria Alexandrovna responded, “it may be good, but then again, God knows. It's so new somehow, so unknown. Of course, it's necessary for us to stay here, at least for the time being. ”

She looked at Rodya.

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

“I think his idea is a very good one, ” he answered. “Naturally, you shouldn't dream ahead of time of establishing a firm, but it is indeed possible to publish five or six books with unquestionable success. I myself know of one work that would be sure to do well. And as for his ability to handle the business, there's no doubt of it: he understands business... However, you have time enough to come to an agreement... ”

“Hurrah! ” cried Razumikhin. “Now wait, there's an apartment here, in this same building, with the same landlord. It's a private, separate one, not connected with the rooming house, and it's furnished—the price is moderate, three small rooms. So you take that to start with. I'll pawn your watch tomorrow and bring you the money, and later everything will be settled. And the main thing is that you can all three live together, and Rodya with you... Where are you off to, Rodya? ”

“What, Rodya, you're leaving already? ” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked, even in alarm.

“At such a moment! ” exclaimed Razumikhin.

Dunya looked at her brother with incredulous surprise. He had his cap in his hand; he was getting ready to go.

“It's not as if you were burying me or saying good-bye forever, ” he said, somehow strangely.

It was as if he smiled, but at the same time as if it were not a smile.

“Though, who knows, maybe this is the last time we'll see each other, ” he added inadvertently.

He was thinking it to himself, but somehow it got spoken aloud.

“What's the matter with you! ” his mother cried out.

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

“No, I really must, ” he answered vaguely, as if hesitating over what he wanted to say. But there was a sort of sharp determination in his pale face.

“I wanted to tell you... as I was coming here... I wanted to tell you, mama... and you, Dunya, that it's better if we part ways for a while. I'm not feeling well, I'm not at ease... I'll come myself afterwards... when I can. I think of you and love you... Leave me! Leave me alone! I decided on it even before... I decided on it for certain... Whatever happens to me, whether I perish or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether. It's better... Don't make inquiries about me. When need be, I'll come myself, or... send for you. Perhaps everything will rise again! ... But for now, if you love me, give in... Otherwise I'll start hating you, I feel it... Good-bye! ”

“Lord! ” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Mother and sister were both terribly frightened; so was Razumikhin.

“Rodya, Rodya! Make peace with us, let's be as we used to be! ” his poor mother exclaimed.

He slowly turned towards the door, and slowly began walking out of the room. Dunya overtook him.

“Brother! What are you doing to mother! ” she whispered, her eyes burning with indignation.

He gave her a heavy look.

“It's all right, I'll be back, I'll still come! ” he muttered half aloud, as if not quite aware of what he wanted to say, and walked out of the room.

“Wicked, unfeeling egoist! ” Dunya cried out.

“He's not unfeeling, he's cra-a-azy! He's mad! Don't you see that? If not, you're unfeeling yourself! . . . ” Razumikhin whispered hotly, just over her shoulder, squeezing her hand hard.

“I'll be back right away! ” he cried, turning to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who had gone numb, and he ran out of the room.

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

“I knew you'd come running, ” he said. “Go back to them and be with them... Be with them tomorrow, too... and always. I'll come... maybe... if I can. Good-bye! ”

And without offering his hand, he began walking away.

“But where are you going? Why? What's wrong with you? You can't do this! ” Razumikhin kept murmuring, utterly at a loss.

Raskolnikov stopped again.

“Once and for all, never ask me about anything. I have no answers for you... Don't come to 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 a light. For a minute they looked silently at each other. Razumikhin remembered that minute all his life. Raskolnikov's burning and fixed look seemed to grow more intense every moment, penetrating his soul, his consciousness. All at once Razumikhin gave a start. Something strange seemed to pass between them... as if the hint of some idea, something horrible, hideous, flitted by and was suddenly understood on both sides... Razumikhin turned pale as a corpse.

“You understand now? ” Raskolnikov said suddenly, with a painfully contorted face. “Go back, go to them, ” he added suddenly, and, turning quickly, he walked out of the house. . .

I will not describe here what went on that evening at Pulcheria Alexandrovna's, how Razumikhin went back to them, how he tried to calm them, how he swore that Rodya needed to be allowed some rest in his illness, swore that Rodya would come without fail, would visit them every day, that he was very, very upset, that he should not be irritated; that he, Razumikhin, would keep an eye on him, would find him a doctor, a good doctor, the best, a whole consultation... In short, from that evening on Razumikhin became their son and brother.

And Raskolnikov went straight to the house on the canal where Sonya lived. It was a three-storied, old, and green-colored house. He sought out the caretaker and got vague directions from him as to where Kapernaumov the tailor lived. Having located the entrance to a narrow and dark stairway in the corner of the yard, he went up, finally, to the second floor and came out onto a gallery running around it on the courtyard side. While he was wandering in the darkness and in perplexity with regard to the possible whereabouts of Kapernaumov's entrance, a door opened suddenly, three steps away from him; he took hold of it mechanically.

“Who's there? ” a woman's voice asked in alarm.

“It's me... to see you, ” Raskolnikov replied, and stepped into the tiny entryway. There, on a chair with a broken seat, stood a candle in a bent copper candlestick.

“It's you! Lord! ” Sonya cried weakly, and stood rooted to the spot.

“Where do I go? In here? ”

And, trying not to look at her, Raskolnikov went quickly into the room.

A moment later Sonya came in with the candle, put the candlestick down, and stood before him, completely at a loss, all in some inexpressible agitation, and obviously frightened by his unexpected visit. Color suddenly rushed to her pale face, and tears even came to her eyes... She had a feeling of nausea, and shame, and sweetness... Raskolnikov quickly turned away and sat down on a chair by the table. He managed to glance around the room as he did so.

It was a big but extremely low-ceilinged room, the only one let by the Kapernaumovs, the locked door to whose apartment was in the wall to the left. Opposite, in the right-hand wall, there was another door, always tightly shut. This led to another, adjoining apartment, with a different number. Sonya's room had something barnlike about it; it was of a very irregular rectangular shape, which gave it an ugly appearance. A wall with three windows looking onto the canal cut somehow obliquely across the room, making one corner, formed of a terribly acute angle, run somewhere into the depths where, in the weak light, it could not even be seen very well; the other corner was too grotesquely obtuse. The whole big room had almost no furniture in it. There was a bed in the corner to the right; a chair next to it, nearer the door. Along the same wall as the bed, just by the door to the other apartment, stood a simple wooden table covered with a dark blue cloth and, at the table, two rush-bottom chairs. Then, against the opposite wall, near the acute corner, there was a small chest of drawers, made of plain wood, standing as if lost in the emptiness. That was all there was in the room. The yellowish, frayed, and shabby wallpaper was blackened in all the corners; it must have been damp and fumy in winter. The poverty was evident; there were not even any curtains over the bed.

Sonya looked silently at her visitor, who was examining her room so attentively and unceremoniously, and at last even began to tremble with fear, as though she were standing before the judge and ruler of her destiny.

“It's late. .. already eleven? ” he asked, still without raising his eyes to her.

“Yes, ” Sonya murmured. “Ah, yes, it is! ” she suddenly hurried on, as if the whole way out for her lay there. “The landlord's clock just struck... I heard it myself... It is! ”

“I've come to you for the last time, ” Raskolnikov went on sullenly, though it was in fact the first time. “I may never see you again. . . ”

“You're... going away? ”

“I don't know... tomorrow, everything. . . ”

“So you won't be at Katerina Ivanovna's tomorrow? ” Sonya's voice faltered.

“I don't know. Tomorrow morning, everything... That's not the point; I came to say one word to you. . . ”

He raised his pensive eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was sitting and she was still standing before him.

“Why are you standing? Sit down, ” he said suddenly, in a changed, quiet and tender voice.

She sat down. He looked at her for about a minute, kindly and almost compassionately.

“How thin you are! Look at your hand! Quite transparent. Fingers like a dead person's. ”

He took her hand. Sonya smiled weakly.

“I've always been like that, ” she said.

“Even when you were living at home? ”

“Yes. ”

“Ah, but of course! ” he uttered abruptly, and the expression of his face and the sound of his voice suddenly changed again. He looked once more around the room.

“You rent from Kapernaumov? ”

“Yes, sir. . . ”

“That's their door there? ”

“Yes... They have a room the same as this one. ”

“All in one room? ”

“Yes, in one room, sir. ”

“I'd be scared in your room at night, ” he remarked sullenly.

“The landlords are very nice, very affectionate, ” Sonya replied, as if she had still not come to her senses or collected her thoughts, “and all the furniture and everything... everything is theirs. And they're very kind, and the children often come to see me, too. ”

“They're the ones who are tongue-tied? ”

“Yes, sir... He stammers, and he's lame as well. And his wife, too... Not that she really stammers, but it's as if she doesn't quite get the words out. She's kind, very. And he's a former household serf. And there are seven children... and only the oldest one stammers; the rest are just sick... but they don't stammer... But how do you know about them? ” she added with some surprise.

“Your father told me everything that time. He told me everything about you... How you went out at six o'clock, and came back after eight, and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt by your bed. ”

Sonya was embarrassed.

“I thought I saw him today, ” she whispered hesitantly.

“Whom? ”

“My father. I was walking along the street, nearby, at the corner, around ten o'clock, and he seemed to be walking ahead of me. It looked just like him. I was even going to go to Katerina Ivanovna. . . ”

“You were out walking? ”

“Yes, ” Sonya whispered abruptly, embarrassed again and looking down.

“But Katerina Ivanovna all but beat you when you lived at your father's? ”

“Ah, no, what are you saying, no! ” Sonya looked at him even with some sort of fright.

“So you love her? ”

“Love her? But, of co-o-ourse! ” Sonya drew the word out plaintively, suddenly clasping her hands together with suffering. “Ah! You don't... If only you knew her! She's just like a child. It's as if she's lost her mind... from grief. And she used to be so intelligent... so generous... so kind! You know nothing, nothing... ah! ”

Sonya spoke as if in despair, worrying and suffering and wringing her hands. Her pale cheeks became flushed again; her eyes had a tormented look. One could see that terribly much had been touched in her, that she wanted terribly to express something, to speak out, to intercede. Some sort of insatiable compassion, if one may put it so, showed suddenly in all the features of her face.

“Beat me? How can you! Beat me—Lord! And even if she did beat me, what of it! Well, what of it! You know nothing, nothing... She's so unhappy; ah, how unhappy she is! And sick... She wants justice... She's pure. She believes so much that there should be justice in everything, and she demands it... Even if you tortured her, she wouldn't act unjustly. She herself doesn't notice how impossible it all is that there should be justice in people, and it vexes her... Like a child, like a child! She's a just woman! ”

“And what will become of you? ”

Sonya looked at him questioningly.

“They're all on your hands. True, it was all on you before as well, and it was to you that your late father came to beg for the hair of the dog. Well, what will become of you now? ”

“I don't know, ” Sonya said sadly.

“Will they stay there? ”

“I don't know, they owe rent for the apartment; only I heard today that the landlady said she wants to turn them out, and Katerina Ivanovna says herself that she won't stay a moment longer. ”

“How is she so brave? She's counting on you? ”

“Ah, no, don't talk like that! ... We're all one, we live as one. ” Sonya again became all excited and even vexed, just like a canary or some other little bird getting angry. “And what is she to do? What, what is she to do? ” she repeated, hotly and excitedly. “And how she cried, how she cried today! She's losing her mind, did you notice? She is; she keeps worrying like a little girl that everything should be done properly tomorrow, the meal and everything... then she wrings her hands, coughs up blood, cries, and suddenly starts beating her head against the wall as if in despair. And then she gets comforted again; she keeps hoping in you; she says you'll be her helper now, and that she'll borrow a little money somewhere, and go back with me to her town, and start an institution for noble girls, and she'll make me a supervisor, and a completely new, beautiful life will begin for us, and she kisses me, embraces me, comforts me, and she really believes it! She really believes in her fantasies! Well, how can one contradict her? And she spent the whole day today washing, cleaning, mending; she brought the tub into the room by herself, with her weak strength, out of breath, and just collapsed on the bed; and she and I also went to the market in the morning to buy shoes for Polechka and Lenya, because theirs fell to pieces, only we didn't have enough money, it was much more than we could spend, and she had picked out such lovely shoes, because she has taste, you don't know... She just cried right there in the shop, in front of the shopkeepers, because there wasn't enough... Ah, it was such a pity to see! ”

“Well, after that one can understand why you... live as you do, ” Raskolnikov said, with a bitter smirk.

“And don't you pity her? Don't you? ” Sonya heaved herself up again. “You, I know, you gave her all you had, and you hadn't even seen anything. And if you'd seen everything, oh, Lord! And so many times, so many times I've brought her to tears! Just last week! Ah, me! Only a week before his death. I acted cruelly! And I've done it so many times, so many times. Ah, it's been so painful to remember it all day long today! ”

Sonya even wrung her hands as she spoke, so painful was it to remember.

“You, cruel? ”

“Yes, me, me! I came then, ” she continued, weeping, “and my father said, 'Read to me, Sonya, ' he said, 'there's an ache in my head, read to me... here's a book'—he had some book, he got it from Andrei Semyonovich, he lives here, Lebezyatnikov, he was always getting such funny books. And I said, 'It's time I was going, ' I just didn't want to read, because I stopped by mainly to show Katerina Ivanovna the collars; Lizaveta, the dealer, had brought me some cheap collars and cuffs, pretty, new ones, with a pattern. And Katerina Ivanovna liked them very much, she put them on and looked at herself in the mirror, and she liked them very, very much. 'Sonya, please, ' she said, 'give them to me. ' She said please, and she wanted them so much. But where would she go in them? She was just remembering her former happy days! She looked in the mirror, admired herself, and she's had no dresses, no dresses at all, no things, for so many years now! And she never asks anything from anybody; she's proud, she'd sooner give away all she has, but this time she asked—she liked them so much! And I was sorry to think of giving them away; I said, 'But what for, Katerina Ivanovna? ' I said that: 'what for? ' I should never have said that to her. She just looked at me, and she took it so hard, so hard, that I refused, and it was such a pity to see... And it wasn't because of the collars, but because I refused, I could see that. Ah, if only I could take it all back now, do it over again, all those past words... Oh, I... but why am I talking about it! ... it's all the same to you! ”

“So you knew Lizaveta, the dealer? ”

“Yes... Why, did you? ” Sonya asked in return, with some surprise.

“Katerina Ivanovna has consumption, a bad case; she'll die soon, ” Raskolnikov said after a pause, and without answering the question.

“Oh, no, no, no! ” And with an unconscious gesture, Sonya seized both his hands, as if pleading that it be no.

“But it's better if she dies. ”

“No, it's not better, not better, not better at all! ” she repeated, fearfully and unwittingly.

“And the children? Where will they go, if you don't take them? ”

“Oh, I really don't know! ” Sonya cried out, almost in despair, and clutched her head. One could see that the thought had already flashed in her many, many times, and that he had only scared it up again.

“Well, and what if you get ill now, while Katerina Ivanovna is still with you, and you're taken to the hospital—what then? ” he insisted mercilessly.

“Ah, don't, don't! That simply can't be! ” And Sonya's face became distorted with terrible fright.

“Why can't it? ” Raskolnikov went on, with a cruel grin. “You're not insured against it, are you? What will happen to them then? They'll wind up in the street, the lot of them; she'll cough and beg and beat her head against the wall, like today, and the children will cry... Then she'll collapse, then the police station, the hospital, she'll die, and the children... ”

“Oh, no! God won't let it happen! ” burst at last from Sonya's straining breast. She listened, looking at him in supplication, her hands clasped in mute entreaty, as if it were on him that everything depended.

Raskolnikov got up and began pacing the room. About a minute passed. Sonya stood with arms and head hanging, in terrible anguish.

“But can't you save? Put something aside for a rainy day? ” he asked suddenly, stopping in front of her.

“No, ” whispered Sonya.

“No, naturally! And have you tried? ” he added, all but in mockery.

“I have. ”

“But it didn't work! Naturally! Why even ask! ”

And he began pacing again. Another minute or so passed.

“You don't get money every day? ”

Sonya became more embarrassed than before, and color rushed to her face again.

“No, ” she whispered, with painful effort.

“It's bound to be the same with Polechka, ” he said suddenly.

“No, no! It can't be! No! ” Sonya cried loudly, desperately, as if she had suddenly been stabbed with a knife. “God, God won't allow such horror! . . . ”

“He allows it with others. ”

“No, no! God will protect her! God! . . . ” she repeated, beside herself.

“But maybe there isn't any God, ” Raskolnikov replied, even almost gloatingly, and he looked at her and laughed.

Sonya's face suddenly changed terribly: spasms ran over it. She looked at him with inexpressible reproach, was about to say something, but could not utter a word and simply began sobbing all at once very bitterly, covering her face with her hands.

“You say Katerina Ivanovna is losing her mind, but you're losing your mind yourself, ” he said, after a pause.

About five minutes passed. He kept pacing up and down, silently and without glancing at her. Finally he went up to her; his eyes were flashing. He took her by the shoulders with both hands and looked straight into her weeping face. His eyes were dry, inflamed, sharp, his lips were twitching... With a sudden, quick movement he bent all the way down, leaned towards the floor, and kissed her foot. Sonya recoiled from him in horror, as from a madman. And, indeed, he looked quite mad.

“What is it, what are you doing? Before me! ” she murmured, turning pale, and her heart suddenly contracted very painfully.

He rose at once.

“I was not bowing to you, I was bowing to all human suffering, ” he uttered somehow wildly, and walked to the window. “Listen, ” he added, returning to her after a minute, “I told one offender today that he wasn't worth your little finger... and that I did my sister an honor by sitting her next to you. ”

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