It turned out that at that moment Porfiry Petrovich was alone in his office. His office was a room neither large nor small; it contained: a large writing desk facing a sofa upholstered in oilcloth, a bureau, a cupboard in the corner, and several chairs—all government-issue furniture made of polished yellow wood. In the corner of the back wall—or rather, in the partition—there was a locked door: beyond that partition, presumably, lay other rooms. As Raskolnikov entered, Porfiry Petrovich immediately closed the door through which he had come in, leaving them alone together. He greeted his visitor with what appeared to be the most cheerful and cordial manner, though only a few minutes later Raskolnikov, noticing certain signs, sensed in him something like embarrassment—as if he had been suddenly thrown off balance or caught in the midst of something intensely private and secretive.
This notion, even yesterday during his most intense anxieties and despair, had begun to take root in him. Now, having reviewed all this and steeling himself for a fresh confrontation, he suddenly felt trembling—and even indignation flared within him at the thought that he trembled out of fear before the detestable Porfiry Petrovich. Meeting this man again was the most horrifying prospect for him: he hated him beyond measure, infinitely, and even feared that his hatred might betray him somehow. So fierce was his indignation that it instantly quelled his trembling; he prepared to enter with a cold, defiant demeanor and vowed to remain as silent as possible, observing closely, listening intently, and—this time at least, no matter what—overcoming his pathologically agitated nature. Just then, he was summoned to Porfiry Petrovich.
But nothing of the sort existed—he saw only routine bureaucratic faces, preoccupied with petty matters, and then other random individuals, none of whom cared about him: he could walk off in any direction right now if he pleased. The conviction grew ever firmer within him: if that mysterious man of yesterday, that phantom risen from beneath the earth, truly knew and had witnessed everything—would they really let him, Raskolnikov, stand here calmly, waiting? Would they have waited until eleven o’clock for him to deign to show up? It followed either that the man had not yet reported anything—or perhaps… perhaps he himself knew nothing and had seen nothing with his own eyes (how could he possibly have seen?)—and therefore, all of yesterday’s incident involving him, Raskolnikov, was again merely a ghostly illusion, magnified by his irritated and sick imagination.
The next morning, precisely at eleven o’clock, when Raskolnikov entered the building of the 3rd Precinct, the Investigative Department, and requested to be announced to Porfiry Petrovich, he was even surprised by how long they kept him waiting—no less than ten minutes passed before he was summoned. By his calculations, they should have pounced on him immediately. Meanwhile, he stood in the waiting room as people walked past him, seemingly indifferent to his presence. In the adjoining room, resembling a clerk’s office, several clerks sat writing; clearly, none of them had the faintest idea who or what Raskolnikov was. With anxious, suspicious eyes, he scanned his surroundings, searching for any sign of an escort, any covert glance assigned to watch him so he wouldn’t slip away.
Wrapped in burial cloths around his hands and feet; and his face was bound with a cloth. Jesus said to them: "Unbind him; let him go."
Then many of the Jews who had come to Mary, and had seen what Jesus did, believed in him.
Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?” So they removed the stone from the tomb where the dead man lay. Jesus looked up to heaven and said, “Father, I thank You for hearing Me. I knew You always hear Me; but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, so that they may believe that You sent Me.” Having said this, He called out loudly, “Lazarus, come out!”
Many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to comfort them in their grief over their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went out to meet Him; but Mary remained seated at home. Then Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that whatever You ask of God, God will give You.”
Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha replied, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in Me, though he die, yet shall he live; and everyone who lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?” She said to Him,
“Yes, Lord! I believe that You are the Christ, the Son of God, who has come into the world.”
Now Jesus, deeply moved again, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone lay against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the deceased, said to Him, “Lord, by now there is a stench, for he has been dead four days.”
The conversation struck him as intriguing and significant—and so thoroughly delighted him that he even brought the chair over, planning to sit comfortably next time—perhaps even tomorrow—to avoid the unpleasantness of standing for an hour again, and to fully enjoy himself in every respect.
To the right, behind the very door that separated Sonya’s apartment from Mrs. Resslich’s, was an intermediate room—long vacant, belonging to Mrs. Resslich’s flat, and periodically rented out by her, as indicated by signs posted on the gate and small notices stuck onto the windows facing the canal. Sonya had long grown accustomed to considering this room uninhabited. Yet all this while, Mr. Svidrigailov had been standing right by the door of the empty room, holding his breath and eavesdropping. When Raskolnikov left, he paused, thought for a moment, tiptoed into his own room adjoining the vacant one, fetched a chair, and silently carried it right up to the doorway leading into Sonya’s room.
In fever and delirium, Sonya spent the entire night. She would sometimes jump up, weep, wring her hands, then lapse again into a feverish sleep, dreaming of Polenka, Katerina Ivanovna, Lizaveta, the reading of the Gospel—and him… him, with his pale face, burning eyes… He kisses her feet, weeps… Oh Lord!
He left. Sonya looked at him as if he were mad; but she herself was also beside herself and felt it. Her head was spinning. “Lord! How does he know who killed Lizaveta? What did those words mean? It’s terrifying!” Yet at the same time, it didn’t occur to her. No! Not at all!... “Oh, he must be terribly unhappy!... He has abandoned his mother and sister. Why? What happened? And what does he intend? What was he telling her? He kissed her foot and said… said (yes, he clearly said it) that he cannot live without her… Oh, Lord!”
“What, what am I to do?” Sonya sobbed hysterically, wringing her hands. “What to do? Break what must be broken, once and for all—and take the suffering upon yourself! What? Don’t understand? You’ll understand later… Freedom and power—above all, power! Over every trembling creature and over the entire anthill!... That is the goal! Remember this! This is my parting advice to you! Perhaps I’m speaking to you for the last time. If I don’t come tomorrow, you’ll hear everything on your own—and then recall these very words. And someday, later, after years, with life’s experience, you may even understand what they meant. But if I come tomorrow, I’ll tell you who killed Lizaveta. Goodbye!”
Sonya shuddered in terror. “But do you really know who killed her?” she asked, freezing with horror, staring wildly at him. “I know—and I’ll tell you… Only you! I’ve chosen you. I haven’t come to beg forgiveness from you; I’ve simply come to tell you. I chose you long ago—to say this to you—even back then, when Father spoke of you, while Lizaveta was still alive, I thought of it. Goodbye. Don’t give me your hand. Tomorrow!”
Why? Because you can’t just go on like this—that’s why! You must finally think clearly and honestly, not cry and scream like a child that God won’t allow it! What if, tomorrow, you’re taken to the hospital? She’s half-mad and consumptive—she’ll die soon. And the children? Won’t Polya be ruined? Haven’t you seen children here, huddled in corners, sent out by their mothers to beg for alms? I’ve checked where these mothers live and what kind of conditions they’re in. Children there can’t remain children. A seven-year-old there is already corrupt and a thief. Yet children are the image of Christ: “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.” He commanded us to honour and love them—they are humanity’s future…
– Why should I know? I only know that we’re on the same path, probably—I’m sure of it. One goal! She looked at him, not understanding anything. She only understood that he was terribly, infinitely unhappy. – None of them will understand you if you speak to them, – he went on. – But I do. I need you—that’s why I came to you. – I don’t understand… – whispered Sonya. – You’ll understand later. Didn’t you do the same thing? You too crossed the line… you were able to cross it. You’ve laid hands on yourself, ruined your life… (it’s all the same!). You could have lived by spirit and reason, but you’ll end up on Sennaya… But you can’t bear it—you’ll go mad, just like me, if you stay. You’re already half-mad now; so we must walk together, on the same path! Let’s go! – Why? Why are you saying this? – Sonya murmured, strangely and rebelliously stirred by his words.
"Why?" Sonya asked, dazed. Her earlier meeting with his mother and sister had left an unusual impression on her, though even she couldn’t quite understand it. She listened to the news of the break-up almost in horror. "Now I have only you," he added. "Let’s go together… I’ve come to you. We’re both cursed—let’s walk together!"
His eyes blazed. “He’s mad!” Sonya thought to herself. "Where are we going?" she asked fearfully, instinctively stepping back.
She struck the word with vigor:
(reading aloud and enthusiastically, trembling and growing cold, as if she herself were witnessing it):
She could not go on reading, shut the book abruptly, and rose quickly from her chair. “All about Lazarus’s resurrection,” she whispered sharply and sternly, then stood motionless, turning away, too timid—and almost ashamed—to raise her eyes to him. Her feverish trembling still continued. The candle stub had long since guttered out in the crooked candlestick, dimly illuminating in this wretched room the murderer and the fallen woman, strangely brought together over the reading of an eternal book. Five minutes or more passed. “I’ve come to speak about business,” Raskolnikov suddenly said loudly, frowning, stood up, and approached Sonya. She silently lifted her eyes to him. His gaze was especially stern, and some wild resolve shone in it. “I’ve abandoned my family today,” he said, “my mother and sister. I won’t go to them now. I’ve severed all ties there.”
Right now, at this very moment,” — she dreamed, trembling with joyful anticipation.
Raskolnikov turned to her and looked at her with agitation: yes, it was true! She was already trembling all over in the grip of a real, genuine fever. He had expected this. She was approaching the words about the greatest and most unheard-of miracle, and a feeling of great triumph seized her. Her voice became clear as metal; triumph and joy rang in it, strengthening her. The lines blurred before her eyes because darkness clouded her vision, but she knew by heart what she was reading. At the final verse — “Could not this one, who opened the eyes of the blind…” — she lowered her voice and passionately conveyed the doubt, reproach, and scorn of the unbelieving, blind Jews, who would now, in a moment, be struck like thunder, fall down, weep, and believe… “And he too, blinded and unbelieving — he will hear it now, he too will believe, yes, yes!
Here she paused again, shyly sensing that her voice would tremble and break once more…
(And as if drawing a pained breath, Sonya read aloud, distinctly and with force, as though confessing before all present):
She had stopped, swiftly lifting her eyes, but quickly overcame herself and continued reading. Raskolnikov sat still, listening without turning, leaning on the table and gazing sideways. They reached verse 32. “Now Mary, when she came to where Jesus was and saw him, fell at his feet and said to him: Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. And he said: Where have you laid him? They said to him: Lord, come and see. Jesus wept. Then the Jews said: See how he loved him! But some of them said: Could not this man, who opened the eyes of the blind, have kept this man from dying?”
He read this in her eyes, sensed it from her excited agitation… She overcame herself, suppressed the throat spasm that had initially choked her voice at the start of the verse, and continued reading Chapter 11 of the Gospel of John. Thus, she read until verse 19:
Raskolnikov partly understood why Sonya hesitated to read to him, and the more he grasped it, the ruder and more irritable he became in insisting she read. He fully realized how painful it was for her now to expose and reveal everything. He recognized that these feelings indeed formed a genuine, long-standing part of her—perhaps dating back to her childhood, within her family, beside her wretched father and her grief-maddened stepmother, amid starving children, ugly screams, and reproaches. Yet at the same time, he now knew—and knew for certain—that though she grieved and feared something terrible as she began to read, she also desperately wanted to read aloud, despite all sorrow and apprehension, precisely so he would hear it, no matter what ensued afterward!...
The bookish words sounded strange to him, and again—news: mysterious gatherings with Lizaveta, and both of them—fools for Christ’s sake. “Here, one might well turn into a holy fool oneself! Contagious!” he thought. “Read it!” he suddenly cried insistently and irritably. Sonya hesitated. Her heart pounded. She didn’t dare read to him. He gazed almost painfully at the “poor mad girl.”
“Why do you want this? You don’t believe anyway…” she whispered softly, breathless. “I want it! Read!” he insisted. “You read it to Lizaveta!”
Sonya opened the book and found the passage. Her hands trembled; her voice lacked strength. Twice she began, but couldn’t utter the first syllable. “There was a certain man named Lazarus, of Bethany…” she finally managed, straining—but suddenly, from the third word, her voice rang out sharply and snapped like an over-tightened string. A chill swept through her, and her chest tightened.
– Haven’t you heard at church? – I… didn’t go. Do you go often? – N-no, – whispered Sonya. Raskolnikov smirked. – I see… So you won’t go to bury your father tomorrow either? – I will. I was there last week too… they held a memorial service. – For whom? – For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe. His nerves were growing more and more irritated. His head began to spin. – Were you close to Lizaveta? – Yes… She was righteous… she used to come… rarely… it wasn’t allowed. We read together and… talked. She’ll see God.
“Lizaveta! Strange!” he thought. Everything about Sonya was growing stranger and more wondrous to him with each passing minute. He carried the book to the candle and began flipping through its pages. “Where’s the part about Lazarus?” he suddenly asked. Sonya stared resolutely at the floor, silent. She stood slightly sideways to the table. “Where’s the resurrection of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonya.”
She glanced sideways at him. “You’re looking in the wrong place… It’s in the Fourth Gospel…” she whispered harshly, not moving toward him. “Find it and read it to me,” he said, sitting down, leaning on the table, propping his head with one hand, and glowering off to the side, preparing to listen. “Three weeks from now, seventh verst—do come by if you can. I might be there myself, unless things get worse,” he muttered under his breath. Sonya hesitantly stepped toward the table, unsure how to take Raskolnikov’s strange request. Still, she picked up the book. “Haven’t you read it before?” she asked, glancing at him across the table, her voice growing stern and sterner. “A long time ago… When I was studying. Read it!”
A book lay on the dresser. Every time he paced back and forth, he noticed it; now he picked it up and looked. It was the New Testament in Russian translation—a worn, old book bound in leather. “Where did this come from?” he called out to her across the room. She stood in the same spot, three paces from the table. “Someone brought it,” she replied, as if reluctantly, without looking at him. “Who brought it?”
“Liza brought it—I asked her to.”
Sonya remained silent for a long time, as if unable to answer. Her frail chest heaved with emotion. “Hush! Don’t ask! You’re not worthy!” she suddenly cried out, staring at him sternly and angrily. “That’s it! That’s exactly it!” he repeated insistently to himself. “She does everything!” she whispered quickly, lowering her gaze again. “There’s the outcome! There’s the explanation!” he decided inwardly, studying her with ravenous curiosity. He gazed at this pale, thin, angular face, at these gentle blue eyes that could flash with such fire, such fierce and energetic passion, at this small body still trembling with indignation and anger—with a new, strange, almost painful feeling. Everything seemed more and more peculiar, almost impossible to him. “A holy fool! A holy fool!” he muttered to himself.
He stubbornly fixated on this thought. This outcome appealed to him more than any other. He began to scrutinize it more closely. “Do you pray to God very much, Sonya?” he asked her. Sonya remained silent. He stood beside her, waiting for an answer. “What would I be without God?” she whispered quickly and fervently, briefly glancing up at him with suddenly sparkling eyes, and tightly gripped his hand. “There it is!” he thought. “And what does God do for you in return?” he pressed further.
But is this really true?—he exclaimed to himself—can this creature, still preserving the purity of her soul, consciously sink at last into this foul, stinking pit? Has this sinking already begun, and is it only because vice no longer seems so repulsive to her that she has endured thus far? No, no, it cannot be!—he cried, just as Sonya had earlier—no, until now it was the thought of sin that held her back from the gutter. And if she has not yet gone mad… But who said she hasn’t already gone mad? Is she in her right mind? Can anyone speak the way she does? Can anyone reason the way she does while sane? Can anyone sit idly over ruin, right above the stinking pit that is already sucking her in, waving her hands and plugging her ears when warned of danger? Is she perhaps waiting for a miracle? Surely she is. Are all these not signs of insanity?
She has three paths, he thought: to throw herself into a gutter, end up in an asylum, or... or finally, plunge into debauchery—numbing the mind and hardening the heart. The last thought repelled him most; but he was already a skeptic, young, detached, and thus cruel, so he could not help believing that the final option—debauchery—was the likeliest.
Yet, he clearly understood that Sonya, with her character and the development she had attained, could not possibly remain in such a state indefinitely. Still, it puzzled him: why had she been able to endure this condition for so long without going mad, if she lacked the strength to throw herself into the water? He knew, of course, that Sonya’s situation was an accidental phenomenon in society—though, unfortunately, far from unique or exceptional. Yet precisely this randomness, combined with her certain level of refinement and her entire past life, seemed as though they should have crushed her instantly at the very first step onto this repulsive path. What, then, sustained her? Not debauchery? Surely, this shame had touched her only mechanically; true depravity had not yet seeped even a drop into her heart—he saw that clearly; she stood before him, alive and real…
He read everything in her one glance. So, she herself had already entertained this thought. Perhaps many times and seriously, in despair, she had pondered how to end it all at once—and so seriously that now she was hardly surprised by his suggestion. She even failed to notice the cruelty of his words (of course, she also didn’t perceive the meaning behind his reproaches or his particular look at her disgrace—this was evident to him). But he fully understood how terribly the thought of her dishonorable and shameful position had tortured her—for a long time now. What, then, what could possibly have held back her resolve to end it all? Only now did he fully grasp what these poor, little orphaned children and the pitiful, half-mad Katerina Ivanovna—with her consumption and her head banging against the wall—meant to her.
— I didn’t say it because of your dishonour or sin, but because of your great suffering. And yes, you are a great sinner—that’s true, — he added almost ecstatically, — but above all, you’re a sinner because you’ve murdered and betrayed yourself. Isn’t that terrible? Isn’t it horrifying that you live in this filth you despise, yet know full well (if only you’d open your eyes) that you’re helping no one and saving nobody from anything! For goodness’ sake, tell me finally — he said, nearly beside himself — how can such shame and degradation coexist within you alongside those other opposite, holy feelings? It would be far more just, a thousand times more just and sensible, to simply plunge your head into water and end it all at once! — But what about them? — Sonya asked weakly, gazing at him with anguish, yet somehow not even surprised by his suggestion. Raskolnikov looked at her strangely.
Oh, why did you say that to them! And in her presence? — Sonya cried out in alarm. To sit with me! Honor? But I… I’m dishonorable… I’m a great, a terrible sinner! Oh, why did you say that!
Five minutes passed. He kept pacing back and forth, silent, not even glancing at her. Finally, he approached her; his eyes were blazing. He took her by both shoulders with his hands and looked straight into her tear-streaked face. His gaze was dry, feverish, piercing; his lips trembled violently... Suddenly, he swiftly bent down and, kneeling on the floor, kissed her foot. Sonya recoiled from him in horror, as if from a madman. Indeed, he looked utterly deranged. “What are you doing? Before me?” she murmured, paling, and her heart suddenly clenched painfully. He stood up immediately. “I didn’t bow to you—I bowed to all human suffering,” he muttered strangely, then turned away to the window. “Listen,” he added after a moment, turning back to her, “earlier I told an offender that he isn’t worth even one of your little fingers… and that today I honoured my sister by seating her beside you.”
Sonya’s face suddenly changed horribly: convulsions ran across it. She looked at him with indescribable reproach, wanted to say something, but could not utter a word and suddenly broke into bitter, bitter sobs, covering her face with her hands. “You say Katerina Ivanovna is losing her mind; it’s you yourself who are losing your mind,” he said after a pause.
Raskolnikov stood up and began pacing the room. A minute passed. Sonya stood with her hands and head lowered, in terrible anguish. — Can’t you save up? Put something aside for a rainy day? — he asked, suddenly stopping in front of her. — No, — Sonya whispered. — Of course not! But have you tried? — he added, almost mockingly. — I tried. — And it fell apart! Well, naturally! Why even ask! He resumed pacing the room. Another minute elapsed. — You don’t get paid every day, do you? Sonya grew even more flustered, and her face flushed again. — No, — she whispered with painful effort. — Polya will probably end up the same way, — he suddenly said. — No! No! It can’t be! No! — Sonya cried out loudly, like someone stabbed by a knife. — God, God wouldn’t allow such horror!.. — He allows other horrors, though. — No, no! God will protect her, God! — she repeated, beside herself. — Maybe there isn’t any God at all, — Raskolnikov replied with a certain malicious glee, laughed, and stared at her.
– How can it not be? – continued Raskolnikov with a harsh sneer. – Aren’t you insured? Then what will become of them? They’ll all go out onto the street together—she’ll cough and beg, bang her head against a wall somewhere, just like today, while the children cry… And then she’ll collapse, they’ll take her to the police station, to hospital, she’ll die—and the children…
– Oh no!... God wouldn’t allow it! – finally burst from Sonya’s constricted chest. She had been listening, gazing at him pleadingly, hands clasped in silent supplication—as though everything depended on him.
– Did you know that trader, Lizaveta? – Yes… But did you know her? – Sonia asked, somewhat surprised. – Katerina Ivanovna is consumptive, in a bad way; she’ll die soon, – Raskolnikov said after a pause, not answering her question. – Oh no, no, no! – And Sonia unconsciously grasped his hands with both of hers, as if pleading for it not to be so. – Well, it’s better if she dies. – No, it’s not better, not better at all! – She repeated fearfully and instinctively. – And what about the children? Where will you take them then, if not to you? – Oh, I don’t know! – cried Sonia, almost in despair, clutching her head. Clearly, this thought had haunted her many, many times before—and he had just stirred it up again. – What if you fall ill now, even while Katerina Ivanovna is still alive, and they cart you off to hospital—what then? – he pressed mercilessly. – Oh, how can you say such a thing! That simply cannot happen! – Sonia’s face twisted in terrible fright.
And she never asks anyone for anything; she’s proud, would rather give away her last thing herself—but here she asked—because she liked them so much! And I hesitated to give them up: ‘What use are they to you, Katerina Ivanovna?’ I actually said that—‘what use.’ That’s what I shouldn’t have said! She looked at me so sadly—it hurt her terribly that I refused, and it was heartbreaking to watch… It wasn’t about the collars, but that I refused—I could see it. Oh, if only I could turn back time now, redo everything, change all those old words… Oh, me… but what does it matter? You wouldn’t care anyway!”
Yes, me, me! I came then,” she continued, weeping, “and the deceased said to me: ‘Read to me, Sonya, my head aches somehow—read to me… here’s a book.’ He’d got some book from Andrey Semyonich, who lives with Lebezyatnikov—he always brought such funny books. But I said, ‘I must go now,’ and didn’t want to read it. I’d only gone in to show Katerina Ivanovna the collars; Lizaveta, the trader, had brought me cheap collars and cuffs—pretty, new ones with patterns. Katerina Ivanovna liked them very much—she put them on, looked at herself in the mirror, and was so delighted: ‘Please, Sonya, give them to me,’ she begged, and she really wanted them. But where would she wear them? Just remembering her old, happy days! She admired herself in the mirror, but she has no dresses, no belongings—not for years now!
Sonya even wrung her hands as she spoke, pained by the memory. – You, cruel?
– It’s only natural, after how you… live, said Raskolnikov with a bitter smile. – But aren’t you sorry? Don’t you feel pity? – Sonya flared up again. – I know you—you gave away your last penny yourself, even before seeing anything. What if you’d seen it all, oh Lord! And how many, how many times I’ve made her weep! Just last week! Oh, me! A whole week before his death. I behaved cruelly! And how often, how often I did this. Ah, remembering it now the whole day is so painful!
Oh no, don’t say that! We’re one and the same, we live together—Sonia suddenly grew agitated and even irritated, just like a canary or some other little bird might get angry. And what’s she to do? How, how is she to manage? she asked, growing heated and distressed. How much, how much she cried today! Her mind’s going, haven’t you noticed? It’s slipping—now she frets like a child over making sure everything’s proper tomorrow, that there’ll be snacks and all… then she wrings her hands, coughs blood, cries, suddenly starts banging her head against the wall in despair. Then again she calms down, pins all her hopes on you: says you’re now her helper, that she’ll borrow a bit of money somewhere and go back to her town with me, start a boarding school for gentle ladies, take me on as matron, and we’ll begin an entirely new, wonderful life—and she kisses me, hugs me, comforts me, and believes it so wholeheartedly! Believes in these fantasies! How can you contradict her? And yet today she spent the whole day scrubbing, cleaning, mending—dragged a tub into the room herself, with her feeble strength, gasping for breath till she collapsed onto the bed. This morning we even went shopping together, bought shoes for Polya and Lena, because theirs were falling apart—but we fell far short of the money needed, very far, though she picked out such lovely little shoes, because she has taste, you don’t know… Right there in the shop she burst into tears before the merchants, because we didn’t have enough… Oh, it was so pitiful to watch.
“I don’t know,” Sonya said sadly. “Will they stay there?”
“I don’t know—they’re supposed to be in that flat, but I heard the landlady say today she wants to turn them out. Yet Katerina Ivanovna says she won’t stay even a minute longer herself.”
“What makes her so bold? Is she counting on you?”
Sonya said this as if in utter despair, agitated and distressed, wringing her hands. Her pale cheeks flushed again, and her eyes showed anguish. It was clear that something had deeply moved her, that she desperately wanted to express something, to speak up, to defend. Some sort of compassion, one might say, suddenly showed in every feature of her face. "She beat her! Good Lord, she beat her! But even if she did, so what? What of it? You know nothing, absolutely nothing… She's such an unfortunate woman, oh, how unfortunate! And ill… She's seeking justice… She's pure. She so strongly believes that there must be fairness in everything, and she demands it… You can torture her, but she won't do anything unjust. She doesn't even realise how impossible it is for people to always be fair, and that's why she gets upset… Like a child, just like a child! She's just, she's fair!"
"And what will happen to you?"
Sonya looked at him inquiringly. "They're all left on you now. True, even before, everything rested on you—on his hangover days, the deceased himself used to come to you asking. But now, what will become of you?"
– Her? How on earth could you! – cried Sonia, plaintively wringing her hands in anguish. – Oh, if only you knew! She's just like a child... Her mind has been unhinged by suffering. And yet, how clever she once was, how noble, how kind-hearted! You know nothing, absolutely nothing... oh!
– Yes... He stammers and limps too. And his wife as well... Not exactly that she stammers, but as if she doesn't quite pronounce properly. She's kind, very kind. And he was formerly a serf. They have seven children... Only the eldest one stammers, the others are just unwell... not stammering... But how do you know about them? – she added with some surprise. – Your father told me everything that time. He told me all about you... How you went out at six o'clock and came back at nine, and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt by your bedside. Sonia was embarrassed. – I saw him today for certain, – she whispered hesitantly. – Whom? – My father. I was walking down the street, nearby, at the corner, around ten o'clock, and he seemed to be walking ahead. It looked exactly like him. I was just about to go see Katerina Ivanovna... – You were out walking? – Yes, – Sonia whispered again, abruptly, embarrassed once more, looking down. – Didn't Katerina Ivanovna beat you, when your father was alive? – Oh no, how can you say that, how could you? No! – Sonia looked at him with actual fright. – So you love her?
– Are they there, behind the door? – Yes… They have a room just like this. – All of them in one room? – In the same one, sir. – I would be afraid staying in your room at night, – he remarked gloomily. – The landlords are very nice, very kind-hearted, – replied Sonya, still as if bewildered and not quite understanding, – and all the furniture, everything… it all belongs to them. And they are so good, and the children come to see me often too…
– Those dumb ones?
– I’ve come to see you for the last time, – muttered Raskolnikov gloomily, although this was only their first meeting – I might not see you again…
– Are you… leaving? – I don’t know… Everything will be decided tomorrow…
– Then… you won’t be at Katerina Ivanovna’s tomorrow? – Sonia’s voice trembled. – I don’t know. Everything will be clear tomorrow morning… But that’s not the point: I came to say just one thing…
He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was sitting while she was still standing before him. – Why are you standing? Please, sit down, – he said, his voice suddenly changing – soft, gentle, and kind. She sat. He looked at her kindly, almost compassionately, for a minute or so. – How thin you are! See how your hand looks – almost transparent. Your fingers like a corpse’s. He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly. – I’ve always been like this, – she said. – Even when you lived at home? – Yes. – Well, naturally! – he said abruptly, and once again his face and voice changed suddenly. He glanced around the room once more. – Do you rent this place from Kapernamev? – he asked.
Sonya silently watched her guest as he scrutinously and boldly surveyed her room, and she began to tremble in fear, as though standing before the judge and master of her fate. — Am I late... Is it eleven o'clock? — he asked, still not raising his eyes to her. — It is — murmured Sonya. — Oh yes, it is! — she suddenly hurried to add, as if her whole future depended on it — the landlord's clock just struck just now... I heard it myself... It is.
It was a large room, but extremely low-ceilinged—the only one the Kapernaumovs rented out, with a locked door located on the left wall. On the opposite side, on the right wall, there was another door, always bolted shut. That led to a separate, adjoining flat with a different number. Sonya’s room resembled a shed and had the shape of a rather irregular quadrilateral, which gave it a somewhat ugly look. The wall with three windows facing the ditch cut across the room at an odd angle, making one corner painfully sharp, receding deep into the room so that, in dim light, it was nearly impossible to see properly; the other corner was unpleasantly obtuse. The whole large room held almost no furniture. In the corner to the right stood a bed; next to it, closer to the door, a chair. Along the same wall as the bed, near the door to the neighbouring flat, was a plain deal table covered with a small blue cloth, and beside it two wicker chairs. Then, on the opposite wall, close to the sharp corner, stood a small wooden chest of drawers, almost lost in the emptiness. That was all. The yellowish, worn-out, and tattered wallpaper had darkened in all the corners—this place must have been damp and stuffy in winter. The poverty was obvious; even the bed had no curtains.
A minute later, Sonia came in with a candle, placed it down, and stood before him, completely flustered, trembling with indescribable anxiety and clearly frightened by his unexpected visit. Suddenly, a flush spread across her pale face, and even tears welled up in her eyes... She felt both distressed and ashamed, yet strangely sweetened by it all. Raskolnikov quickly turned away and sat down on a chair by the table. In a fleeting glance, he took in the room.
Raskolnikov went straight to the house by the canal where Sonia lived. It was a three-storeyed, old, green-coloured building. He found the caretaker and got from him vague directions about where the tailor Kapernaumov lived. Finding a narrow, dark staircase in a corner of the courtyard, he climbed up at last to the second floor and stepped out onto a gallery running along the yard side. While he was wandering in the dark, puzzled as to where Kapernaumov's door might be, suddenly, three steps away from him, a door opened; he grasped it mechanically. – Who’s there? – a woman’s voice asked anxiously. – It’s me… to see you – answered Raskolnikov, stepping into a tiny anteroom. There, on a broken chair, in a bent copper candlestick, a candle was burning. – It’s you! Good Lord! – Sonia cried faintly, freezing on the spot. – Which way to your room? This way? And Raskolnikov, trying not to look at her, quickly entered the room.
I won't describe what happened that evening at Pulcheria Alexandrovna's, how Razumikhin returned to them, how he comforted them, how he swore that Rodya needed rest during his illness, gave his word that Rodya would definitely come, would visit every day, that he was deeply, deeply distressed, and that they must not upset him; how he, Razumikhin, would keep an eye on him, arrange a good doctor, the best, even a whole panel of specialists... In short, from that evening on, Razumikhin became like a son and a brother to them. IV
The corridor was dark; they stood by the lamp. For a full minute they stared at each other in silence. Razumikhin remembered this moment for the rest of his life. Raskolnikov's burning, intense gaze seemed to grow stronger with every second, piercing into his soul, into his mind. Suddenly Razumikhin shivered. Something strange had passed between them… As if an idea had slipped through, a hint; something terrible, hideous, suddenly understood by both… Razumikhin turned as pale as a corpse. "Do you understand now?" Raskolnikov suddenly said, his face twisted in pain. "Go back, go to them," he added at once, quickly turned away, and walked out of the house.
“I knew you’d come running after me,” he said. “Go back to them and stay with them… Stay there tomorrow too… and always. I… might come, if I can. Goodbye!”
Without offering his hand, he walked away. “Where are you going? What’s this? What’s wrong with you? This can’t be!” muttered Razumikhin, completely bewildered. Raskolnikov stopped once more. “Once and for all—never ask me anything. I’ve nothing to tell you… Don’t come looking for me. Maybe I’ll come here myself… Leave me be, but look after them… Do you understand me?”
“Oh, Lord!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Mother and sister were in terrible fright; so was Razumikhin. “Rodya, Rodya! Make peace with us, let everything be as before!” exclaimed the poor mother. He slowly turned towards the door and walked out of the room. Dunya caught up with him. “Brother! What are you doing to Mother?” she whispered, her eyes blazing with indignation. He looked at her heavily. “Nothing—I’ll come, I’ll visit!” he mumbled half-aloud, as if not fully conscious of what he meant to say, and left the room. “Callous, spiteful egoist!” Dunya cried out. “He’s not callous—he’s mad! Insane! Can’t you see that? After this, you’re the heartless one!” Razumikhin hissed passionately right into her ear, gripping her hand tightly. “I’ll be back right away!” he shouted to the stunned Pulcheria Alexandrovna, and dashed out of the room. Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the corridor.
I wanted to say… while coming here… I wanted to tell you, Mother… and you, Dunya, that it would be better for us to part ways for a while. I’m not feeling well, I’m unsettled… I’ll come back myself, when… it’s possible. I remember you and love you… Leave me! Leave me alone! I’ve decided this already… I’m sure of it… Whatever happens to me—whether I perish or not—I want to be alone. Forget me entirely… It’s better that way… Don’t ask after me. When necessary, I’ll come myself—or call for you. Perhaps everything will rise again!... But now, while you still love me, let go… Otherwise, I’ll come to hate you—I feel it… Goodbye!
Dunya looked at her brother with incredulous surprise. He held his cap in his hands, ready to leave. "You're either burying me or bidding me farewell forever," he said oddly. He seemed to smile, yet it was as if not a smile at all. "Who knows, perhaps we're seeing each other for the last time," he added unintentionally. He had meant to think it to himself, but somehow it slipped out aloud. "What's wrong with you?" cried the mother. "Where are you going, Rodya?" Dunya asked strangely. "Just... I really must," he replied vaguely, as though hesitating over what he wanted to say. Yet there was a sharp determination in his pale face.
– Hurray! – shouted Razumikhin. – Wait, there's a flat here in the same building, from the same landlords. It's separate, self-contained, not connected to the numbered rooms, fully furnished, reasonable rent, three rooms. You can take it for the time being. I'll pawn my watch tomorrow and bring you the money – everything will work out. Most importantly, all three of you can live together, and Rodya can stay with you... But where are you off to, Rodya? – What, Rodya, are you leaving already? – Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked, almost in alarm. – At a moment like this! – cried Razumikhin.
Dunya's eyes were shining. "What you're saying appeals to me very much, Dmitry Prokofyich," she said. "I don't know anything about this, of course," replied Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "maybe it's good, but then again, who can say? It's all so new and uncertain. Of course, we must stay here for some time, at least..."
She looked at Rodya. "What do you think, brother?" Dunya asked. "I think his idea is excellent," he replied. "Of course, we shouldn't dream too soon about a big firm, but five or six books could definitely be published with great success. I myself know of a manuscript that would certainly sell well. And as for whether he can manage the business—there's no doubt about that; he understands the trade. Still, you'll have plenty of time to discuss everything later."
For one of them, I wouldn’t accept less than five hundred just for the idea. And you know, if I told someone else, they might not believe me – such blockheads there are! But as for the actual work – printers, paper, sales, all the business details – leave that to me! I know every nook and cranny. We’ll start small, grow big gradually. At the very least, we’ll have something to live on, and in any case, we’ll surely get our money back.
– Why, why on earth should we let go of our own chance when we already have one of the key tools – our own money? – Razumikhin exclaimed passionately. – Of course, it will take a lot of hard work, but we shall work, you, Avdotya Romanovna, I, Raskolnikov... some publishers today offer a splendid percentage! And the main strength of our plan is that we’ll know exactly what needs translating. We’ll translate, publish, and learn – all at once. Now I can truly be useful, for I have experience. For nearly two years I’ve been moving among publishers and know all their tricks: believe me, they’re no saints! So why, why let a golden opportunity slip by? I myself know, and keep in strict confidence, two or three works – just one idea from any of them, once translated and published, could fetch a hundred rubles per book!
Here, Razumikhin began elaborating on his plan, explaining at length how most of our booksellers and publishers know little about their trade and are therefore usually poor publishers, whereas good publications generally do pay back and yield returns—sometimes quite substantial. It was precisely this kind of publishing venture that Razumikhin was dreaming of. He had been working for others for the past two years and knew three European languages well, although only six days earlier he had told Raskolnikov he was "weak" in German, just to persuade him to take half the translation work along with three rubles advance—he had lied then, and Raskolnikov knew it was a lie.
I see clearly—he simply wants to help me. Last year I didn’t need it, but this year I’ve been waiting for his arrival and have decided to take it. Then you can contribute another thousand from your three, and that will be enough to begin with. We’ll join hands—so, what shall we do?
– But why, why do you want to leave! – he exclaimed with great enthusiasm, pouring out his passionate speech. – What will you do in some small town? Most importantly, you are all together here, and you need each other—oh, how much you need one another! Please understand me! At least stay for some time… Take me as a friend, as a partner, and I assure you, we’ll start an excellent business. Listen, I’ll explain everything to you in detail—my whole plan! This very morning, even before anything had happened, the idea already flashed through my mind. Here’s the thing: I have an uncle (I’ll introduce you—he’s a very kind and respectable old man!), and this uncle has a thousand rupees in savings, but he lives on a pension and doesn’t need the money. For two years now, he’s been urging me to borrow that thousand rupees from him, paying him six percent interest.
“He’s plotting something terrible!” she murmured to herself almost in a whisper, barely suppressing a shudder. Raskolnikov noticed her excessive fear. “It seems I’ll have to see him again more than once,” he said to Duna. “We’ll keep watch! I’ll track him down!” Razumikhin cried energetically. “I won’t take my eyes off him! Rodya gave me permission—he himself told me earlier: ‘Look after your sister.’ And you’ll permit it too, Avdotya Romanovna?”
Duna smiled and extended her hand to him, but concern remained etched on her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at her timidly; yet, the three thousand rubles visibly reassured her. Within a quarter of an hour, everyone was engaged in lively conversation. Even Raskolnikov, though not speaking, listened attentively for a while. Razumikhin was the main speaker.
“Rest her soul, O Lord!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I shall pray to God for her forever and ever! What would have become of us now, Dunya, without these three thousand? Lord, it’s as if they fell from heaven! Oh, Rodya, this morning we had only three rubles left between us, and Dunyasha and I were just thinking how to pawn the watch somewhere quickly—before he himself even thinks of offering it.”
Dunya was struck far too deeply by Svidrigailov’s proposal. She stood there lost in thought.
– I must admit, I don't understand things clearly. He offers ten thousand, yet says he isn't rich. Declares he wants to go away somewhere, and within ten minutes forgets he even mentioned it. Suddenly says he wants to get married, that they're already finding him a bride... Of course, he must have his motives, and most likely not good ones. But again, it seems rather strange to suppose he'd go about it so foolishly if he had bad intentions towards you... Naturally, I refused the money on your behalf, once and for all. Overall, he struck me as very odd, and... even... showing signs, as if, of some mental instability. Though I could be mistaken—it might simply be a kind of bluff. Marfa Petrovna's death seems to have affected him...
- How do you yourself explain him, Rodya? What was your impression of him?
"What did Svidrigailov tell you?" Dunya approached him. "Oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov raised his head:
"He insists on giving you ten thousand roubles, and says he wishes to see you once, in my presence."
"See me! Never in this world!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "How dare he offer her money!"
Then Raskolnikov recounted (rather dryly) his conversation with Svidrigailov, omitting the part about Marfa Petrovna's ghosts, so as not to go into unnecessary details, and feeling an aversion to having any discussion beyond what was absolutely necessary. "What did you answer him?" Dunya asked. "At first I said I wouldn't tell you anything. Then he declared he would himself, by every means, try to arrange a meeting. He claimed his passion for you was nonsense, and that now he feels nothing for you... He does not want you to marry Luzhin. But in general, he spoke incoherently."
Dunya couldn't help thinking he was still very angry with her, while Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him anxiously.
Everyone was happy; in five minutes they were even laughing. Only Dunya occasionally turned pale and frowned, recalling what had happened. Pulcheria Alexandrovna couldn't have imagined that she would feel happy too. That morning, breaking off with Luzhin had seemed like a terrible disaster. But Razumikhin was overjoyed. He didn’t yet dare to fully express it, but trembled all over as if in fever, as though a five-pood weight had been lifted from his heart. Now he had the right to dedicate his whole life to them, to serve them… Oh, there was so much possible now! Though, he nervously pushed away further thoughts and feared his own imagination. Only Raskolnikov sat in the same place, almost sullen and even absent-minded. He, who had most strongly insisted on Luzhin's removal, now seemed least interested in what had happened.
– No, I, I am the most to blame! – Dunechka said, hugging and kissing her mother – I was tempted by his money, but I swear, brother – I never imagined he was such a dishonourable man. Had I seen him for what he was earlier, I wouldn't have been tempted at all! Don't blame me, brother! – God has saved us! God has saved us! – Pulcheria Alexandrovna kept murmuring, almost unconsciously, as though still not fully grasping what had just happened.
This sudden, ugly break struck him like a thunderbolt. It was some disgraceful joke, sheer nonsense! He had merely indulged himself a little; he hadn’t even expressed himself fully, had just flirted, got carried away—and it ended so seriously! After all, he had already grown fond of Dunya in his own way; in his dreams he had already ruled over her—and suddenly!.. No! Tomorrow, tomorrow everything must be restored, healed, corrected, and above all, this conceited milk-sop, this boy who caused it all, must be crushed. Painfully, and almost involuntarily, Razumikhin came to mind as well—but soon he calmed down on that front: “As if that fellow could even be compared to me!” But the one he truly feared was Svidrigailov… In short, a great deal of trouble lay ahead.
In fact, here was even more than he had dreamed of: a proud, strong-willed, virtuous girl, raised and educated above himself (he felt this clearly), and precisely such a creature would be slave-like in gratitude to him for life, would worship him and humbly vanish before him, while he would reign over her absolutely and without limit… Just recently, after long deliberation and waiting, he had finally resolved to change his career path altogether, to step into a broader sphere of activity, and along with it, gradually enter higher society, about which he had long been luxuriating in fantasies… In short, he had decided to try his luck in Petersburg. He knew well that with the help of women one could gain “very, very” much. The charm of a lovely, virtuous, educated woman could wonderfully brighten his path, draw people to him, create an aura… and now everything was collapsing!
Dunya was simply essential to him; the thought of giving her up was unthinkable. For a long time now—several years—he had dreamed sweetly of marriage, all the while quietly saving money and waiting. In deepest secrecy, he had savoured the idea of a virtuous, poor (poverty was a must) young, beautiful, noble, and educated girl, one who was terribly frightened, had suffered greatly in life, and clung entirely to him—a girl who would see him as her saviour for life, revere him, obey him, admire him, and him alone. How many scenes, how many delightful episodes, had he created in his imagination around this tempting, whimsical theme, while resting quietly from his duties! And now his dream of so many years was almost coming true: Avdotya Romanovna’s beauty and education had deeply impressed him; her helpless position had excited him to the utmost.
When Peter Petrovich now bitterly reminded Dune that he had decided to marry her despite the bad rumours about her, he spoke with complete sincerity and even felt deep indignation towards such 'shameful ingratitude'. Yet at the time of proposing to Dune, he had already been fully convinced of the absurdity of these rumours—rumours publicly disproved by Marfa Petrovna herself and long abandoned by the entire town, which had passionately defended Dune’s honour. He would not have denied even now that he had known all this back then. And yet, he still greatly valued his decision to raise Dune to his level and considered it an act of noble sacrifice. By reproaching Dune now, he was expressing a secret, cherished thought—one he had often admired himself, unable to understand why others failed to admire it too. When he had first visited Raskolnikov, he had entered with the self-satisfaction of a benefactor ready to reap gratitude and hear very sweet compliments. And certainly, as he now walked down the stairs, he felt profoundly insulted and unappreciated.
The main thing was that until the very last moment, he had never expected such an outcome. He had been confident right up to the end, never imagining it possible that two poor, defenceless women could slip out of his control. His vanity and a certain kind of self-assurance—closer to self-obsession—had greatly reinforced this belief. Having risen from nothing, Pyotr Petrovich had grown painfully fond of admiring himself, placing high value on his intellect and abilities, and sometimes, in private, even gazed appreciatively at his own face in the mirror. But above all else in the world, he loved and cherished the money he had earned through hard work and every possible means: it brought him on par with those who had always stood above him.
– He's got two heads or something! – shouted Razumikhin, jumping up from his chair and ready to pounce. – You are a despicable and wicked man! – said Duna. – Not a word! Not a move! – cried Raskolnikov, restraining Razumikhin; then, stepping almost face to face with Luzhin:
– Kindly leave the room! – he said quietly and distinctly. – Not another word, or else…
For several seconds, Pyotr Petrovich stared at him with a pale, twisted face of rage, then turned and walked out. Rarely had anyone carried away in their heart so much bitter hatred towards another person as this man now felt for Raskolnikov. He blamed him and him alone for everything. Remarkably, even as he descended the stairs, he still fancied that the matter wasn't entirely lost, and as far as the ladies were concerned, was even "very, very" salvageable. III
– I shall leave at once, but just one final word! – he said, hardly in control of himself now – your mother seems to have completely forgotten that I agreed to take you, so to speak, despite the town gossip spreading all over the district about your reputation. By disregarding public opinion for your sake and restoring your good name, surely, most certainly, I could have hoped for some return, even claimed your gratitude… And only now have my eyes been opened! I see clearly now that perhaps, most certainly, I acted rashly in disregarding public opinion…
This last complaint was so typical of Pyotr Petrovich that Raskolnikov, growing pale with anger and struggling to control himself, suddenly burst out laughing. But Pulcheria Alexandrovna lost her composure:
"Expenses? What expenses? Surely you don't mean our trunk? The conductor brought it for us free of charge! Good Lord, we've been nothing but a burden to you! Get a hold of yourself, Pyotr Petrovich—you're the one who's tied us down, not the other way around!"
"Enough, Mother, please, enough!" pleaded Avdotya Romanovna. "Pyotr Petrovich, for heaven's sake, just leave!"
– What right do you have to speak to her like this! – Pulcheria Alexandrovna intervened passionately. – On what grounds can you object? What rights do you even possess? Should I give my Dunya to a man like you? Get out, leave us altogether! We are to blame ourselves for agreeing to such an unjust arrangement, and most of all, I am…
– Nevertheless, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, – Luzhin fumed furiously, – you bound me with your given word, which you are now reneging upon… and finally… finally, I have been, so to speak, drawn into expenses…
– It's shameful, Rodya, – said Duna. – Pyotr Petrovich, please leave at once! – she said to him, turning pale with anger. Pyotr Petrovich clearly did not expect such an ending. He had placed too much faith in himself, in his power, and in the helplessness of his victims. He refused to believe it even now. He turned pale, and his lips began to tremble. – Avdotya Romanovna, if I walk out of this door now, after such treatment, mark my words – I shall never return. Think carefully! My word is final. – How dare you! – cried Duna, swiftly rising from her seat – I don’t even want you to come back! – What? So this is how it is? – shouted Luzhin, who until the very last moment had refused to believe in such an outcome, and thus was now completely flustered – Is this how you treat me? But let me tell you, Avdotya Romanovna, I have the right to protest!
- But now, at least, I can't possibly count on that, and especially don't wish to hinder conveying Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov's confidential proposals, entrusted to your brother, which, as I see, are of great, perhaps even very agreeable, importance to you. - Oh my God! - cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Razumikhin could not sit still on his chair. - And aren't you ashamed now, sister? - asked Raskolnikov.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was slightly offended. "You're really taking too much control over us, Pyotr Petrovich. Dunya has already explained the reason your wish couldn't be fulfilled—she had good intentions. And besides, you write to me as if giving orders. Should we really treat every one of your wishes as a command? I would rather say, on the contrary, that you ought to be especially considerate and accommodating towards us now, since we've given up everything and come here trusting you—so we're already nearly in your power as it is."
"This isn't quite fair, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at this moment when the three thousand left to us by Marfa Petrovna in her will has just been announced—it seems very timely, judging by the new tone being used with me," he added sarcastically. "Judging by this remark, one might indeed suppose that you were counting on our helplessness," Dunya retorted sharply.
– You see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna, – he said, – can there possibly be any agreement here? I trust now that this matter is finally settled and clarified once and for all. I shall take my leave, so as not to interrupt the pleasant family reunion or the sharing of private confidences. (He rose from his chair and picked up his hat.) Before I go, I must dare to mention that in future I hope to be spared such meetings and, so to speak, awkward situations. And I particularly request, most respected Pulcheria Alexandrovna, that you kindly keep this in mind, especially since my letter was addressed to you and not to anyone else.
– I beg your pardon, sir, – replied Luzhin, trembling with anger, – in my letter I described your character and conduct solely in compliance with the request of your sister and mother, who asked me to inform them how I found you and what impression you made on me. As regards what I mentioned in my letter, find me even a single unjust line – that you didn’t spend the money, or that in that family, however unfortunate, there were no unworthy individuals? – In my opinion, with all your virtues, you aren’t worth the little finger of that unfortunate girl whom you’re so ready to condemn. – So then, you would actually introduce her into the society of your mother and sister? – I’ve already done so, if you must know. I seated her beside mother and Dunya today. – Rodya! – exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dunya blushed; Razumikhin frowned. Luzhin smiled sarcastically and haughtily.
"You wrote," said Raskolnikov sharply, without turning to Luzhin, "that yesterday I gave the money not to the widow of the man who was crushed, as actually happened, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen until yesterday). You wrote this to create conflict between me and my family, and added foul remarks about the behaviour of a girl you know nothing about. This is all gossip and meanness."
– I don’t recall exactly, – faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, – I conveyed it as I understood. I don’t know how Rodya passed it on to you… Perhaps he exaggerated something. – Without your suggestion, he couldn’t have exaggerated. – Peter Petrovich, – said Pulcheria Alexandrovna with dignity, – the proof that Dunya and I did not take your words in bad part is the fact that we…
– That’s right, Mama! – Dunya approved. – So I’m to blame again! – Luzhin took offence. – You keep blaming Rodyon, Peter Petrovich, but you yourself wrote something untrue about him in your letter just now, – Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, gaining courage. – I don’t recall having written anything untrue, sir.
Forgive me, I've forgotten your surname—) he bowed politely to Razumikhin—insulted me by distorting a thought I had shared with you privately, during our conversation over coffee, namely, that in my opinion, marrying a poor young woman who has already experienced life's hardships is, in marital terms, more advantageous than marrying one who has known only comfort, as it is more beneficial for moral development. Your son deliberately exaggerated my words to the point of absurdity, accusing me of malicious intentions—and in my view, basing this accusation precisely on your own correspondence. I would consider myself fortunate if, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, you could possibly convince me otherwise, thereby greatly reassuring me. Kindly inform me, in exactly what terms did you relay my words in your letter to Rodion Romanovich?"
"Love for one's future life partner, for one's husband, should surpass love for a brother," he said sententiously. "At any rate, I cannot stand on equal footing... Although earlier I insisted that in your brother's presence I neither wish nor can express everything I came to say, nevertheless I now intend to turn directly to your highly respected mother for a necessary explanation regarding a certain very important and, for me, deeply offensive matter. Your son," he addressed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "yesterday, in the presence of Mr. Razumikhin (or... so I believe?
“Avdotya Romanovna,” Luzhin said, bristling, “your words carry far too much implication for my liking—indeed, I must say they are even offensive—considering the honourable position I hold in relation to you. Not to mention the strange and insulting comparison you've drawn, placing me on the same level as… an arrogant young man, your words themselves suggest the possibility that I might break the promise given to you. You say, ‘either you or him’? In doing so, you clearly show how little regard you have for me… I simply cannot accept this, given the understanding and… the obligations existing between us.”
“How dare you!” Dunya flared up. “I am weighing your interests against everything that has until now been precious to me, everything that has made up my very life, and yet you’re offended because I’m not valuing you more?”
Raskolnikov smiled silently and sarcastically; Razumikhin shuddered all over. But Pyotr Petrovich did not accept the rebuttal. On the contrary, with every word he grew only more tenacious and irritable, as if getting into the spirit of it.
And as for you: how much do you value me, how dear am I to you—are you truly my husband?"
"Oh, please let go of this touchiness, Pyotr Petrovich," Dunya interrupted feelingly. "Be the wise and noble man I've always believed you to be, and want to believe you are. I've given you a great promise; I am your fiancée. Trust me in this matter, and believe me, I am capable of judging impartially. The fact that I'm taking on the role of judge is as much a surprise to my brother as it is to you. When I invited him today, after your letter, to come for our meeting, I told him nothing of my intentions. Understand that if you two don't reconcile, then I must choose between you—either you or him. That's how the question stands, from both your sides. I don't want to, and must not, make a mistake in my choice. For your sake, I'd have to break with my brother; for my brother's sake, I'd have to break with you. Now I want and can find out for certain: is he truly my brother?
– There are certain insults, Avdotya Romanovna, that cannot be forgotten, no matter how willing one is to forgive. Everything has its limits, beyond which it is dangerous to cross; for once crossed, one cannot turn back. – That's not exactly what I meant, Pyotr Petrovich, – Dounia interrupted somewhat impatiently – please understand clearly that our entire future now depends on whether all this is cleared up and settled as quickly as possible. I'm speaking plainly from the start: I cannot look at it any other way. And if you value me even slightly, then, however difficult it may be, this entire matter must end today. I repeat, if my brother is at fault, he will ask for forgiveness. – I'm surprised you put the question like this, Avdotya Romanovna, – Luzhin grew increasingly irritated – while cherishing you, so to speak adoring you, I may still very much dislike someone from your family. Aspiring to the honour of your hand, I cannot at the same time accept obligations that are utterly incompatible...
"My request that your brother not be present during our meeting has not been fulfilled solely due to my insistence," said Dounia. "You wrote that you were insulted by my brother. I think this must be cleared up at once, and you two should reconcile. And if Rodya truly insulted you, then he is the one who should apologise."
At once, Pyotr Petrovich became emboldened.
Pyotr Petrovich took out his watch and glanced at it. 'It is time for me to attend to some business, and thus I shall not be in the way,' he added with a slightly offended air, and began rising from his chair. 'Do stay, Pyotr Petrovich,' said Dounia. 'You intended to spend the evening with us. Besides, you yourself wrote that you wished to discuss something with Mama.'
'Precisely so, Avdotya Romanovna,' replied Pyotr Petrovich in a weighty tone, sitting down again but still holding his hat in hand. 'I did indeed wish to have a word with you, and with your highly respected mother, on matters of great importance. But just as your brother cannot discuss certain proposals made by Mr Svidrigailov in my presence, so too I am unwilling and unable to discuss certain—very, very important—matters in the presence of others. Moreover, my serious and most earnest request has not been fulfilled...'
Luzhin put on a bitter expression and sat back with dignified silence.
– It's the absolute truth – Luzhin blurted out. – Well then, what next? – Dunyasha urged. – Then he said he isn't wealthy himself and all his property goes to his children, who now live with their aunt. Then he mentioned he stayed somewhere near me, but where exactly? – I don’t know, I didn’t ask…
– But what, what does he intend to offer Dunyasha? – a frightened Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked. – Did he tell you? – Yes, he did. – Well? – I’ll say it later. – Raskolnikov fell silent and turned to his tea.
"Peter Petrovich, please," said Dunya, "let's not speak of Mr. Svidrigailov. It makes me so uneasy."
"Svidrigailov was here just now," suddenly said Raskolnikov, breaking his silence for the first time. Everyone exclaimed at once and turned to him. Even Peter Petrovich was agitated. "An hour and a half ago, when I was asleep, he came in, woke me up, and introduced himself," Raskolnikov continued. "He was quite free and easy, cheerful, and fully expects that we'll get along. Among other things, he asked me particularly to arrange a meeting with you, Dunya, and wants me to act as a mediator. He has some proposal for you, the nature of which he shared with me. Moreover, he positively informed me that Marfa Petrovna, a week before her death, managed to leave you, Dunya, three thousand roubles by will, and you can receive this money very shortly."
"Thank God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. "Dunya, pray for her soul, pray!"