Текст книги "Crime and Punishment"

Автор книги: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Соавторы: Fyodor Dostoevsky
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

“How long ago did you see it?”

“I began to notice it even earlier, and finally became convinced two days ago, almost at the very moment of my arrival in Petersburg. In Moscow, however, I still imagined I was coming to seek Avdotya Romanovna's hand and to be Mr. Luzhin's rival.”

“Excuse me for interrupting you, but kindly make it short, and go straight to the purpose of your visit. I'm in a hurry, I must go out . . .”

“With the greatest pleasure. Having arrived here, and having now decided to undertake a certain...voyage, I wished to make the necessary preliminary arrangements. My children have stayed behind with their aunt; they're rich, and do not need me personally. After all, what sort of father am I! For myself I took only what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago. It's enough for me. Sorry, I'm now coming to the business itself. Before this voyage, which may in fact take place, I also want to finish with Mr. Luzhin. Not that I find him so unbearable, but all the same it was through him that my quarrel with Marfa Petrovna came about, when I discovered she had cooked up this wedding. I now wish to see Avdotya Romanovna, with your mediation, and explain to her, perhaps even in your presence, first, that she will get not the slightest profit from Mr. Luzhin, but instead, and quite certainly, there will be a clear loss. Then, having asked her forgiveness for all those recent troubles, I would like to ask permission to offer her ten thousand roubles and thus facilitate her break with Mr. Luzhin, a break which I am sure she would not be averse to, if only the possibility should arise.”

“But you are really and truly crazy!” Raskolnikov exclaimed, not even so much angry as surprised. “How dare you say that!”

“I knew you were going to make an outcry; but, first, though I'm not rich, I do have these ten thousand roubles at my disposal—that is, I absolutely, absolutely do not need them. If Avdotya Romanovna does not accept them, I may put them to some even more foolish use. That's one thing. Second, my conscience is entirely at rest; there is no calculation in my offer. You may not believe it, but later both you and Avdotya Romanovna will find it to be so. The whole thing is that I did indeed cause your dear, much esteemed sister some trouble and unpleasantness; therefore, feeling sincerely repentant, it is my heartfelt wish—not to buy myself off, not to pay for the unpleasantness, but purely and simply to do something profitable for her, on the grounds that I have not, after all, taken the privilege of doing only evil. If there were even a millionth part of calculation in my offer, I would not have made it so directly; and I would not be offering her only ten thousand, when I offered her much more just five weeks ago. Besides, it's possible that in a very, very short time I shall marry a certain girl, and consequently all suspicion of any attempts against Avdotya Romanovna should thereby be wiped out. In conclusion, I will say that in marrying Mr. Luzhin, Avdotya Romanovna will only be taking the same money from another hand . .. Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich; consider it calmly and coolly.”

Svidrigailov himself was extremely cool and calm as he said this.

“I beg you to finish,” said Raskolnikov. “In any case, it's unforgivably impudent.”

“Not in the least. Or else man can only do evil to men in this world, and, on the contrary, has no right to do even a drop of good, because of empty, conventional formalities. That is absurd. If I died, for example, and left this sum to your dear sister in my will, is it possible that even then she would refuse it?”

“Quite possible.”

“Now, that can't be, sir. However, if so, so—let it be as you say. Only ten thousand is a wonderful thing on occasion. In any case, I ask that you tell Avdotya Romanovna what I've said.”

“No, I won't.”

“In that case, Rodion Romanovich, I shall be forced to try to obtain a personal meeting myself, and therefore to trouble her.”

“And if I do tell her, you won't try to obtain a personal meeting?”

“I really don't know what to say. I would very much like to see her, just once.”

“Hopeless.”

“Too bad. However, you don't know me. Perhaps we'll become closer.”

“You think we'll become closer?”

“And why not?” Svidrigailov said, smiling, and he stood up and took his hat. “It's not that I wished so much to trouble you, and I didn't even count on much in coming here, though, by the way, already this morning I was struck by your physiognomy...”

“Where did you see me this morning?” Raskolnikov asked uneasily.

“By chance, sir...I keep fancying there's something in you that suits my...But don't worry, I'm not a bore; I got along with sharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a distant relation of mine and a grand gentleman, and I was able to write about Raphael's Madonna in Madame Prilukov's album, and lived uninterruptedly for seven years with Marfa Petrovna, and spent a night or two in Vyazemsky's house on the Haymarket in days of old, <sup>[93]93
  Prince Svirbey and Madame Prilukov are not known. Vyazemsky's house was a Petersburg flophouse where the dregs of society spent their nights.


[Закрыть]</sup> and will perhaps fly with Berg in his balloon.”

“Well, very well, sir. May I ask if you will be going on your trip soon?”

“What trip?”

“That 'voyage'...You were just talking about it.”

“Voyage? Ah, yes! ... I did tell you about a voyage...Well, that is a vast question...You have no idea what you're asking, however!” he added, and suddenly burst into loud but short laughter. “Perhaps, instead of the voyage, I'll get married. They're matchmaking me with a fiancée.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“How have you had time?”

“But I rather wished to see Avdotya Romanovna once. A serious request. Well, good-bye...Ah, yes! See what I forgot! Tell your dear sister, Rodion Romanovich, that she is mentioned in Marfa Petrovna's will for three thousand roubles. That is positively so. Marfa Petrovna made the arrangements a week before her death, and it was done in my presence. In two or three weeks Avdotya Romanovna will be able to have the money.”

“You're telling the truth?”

“The truth. Tell her. Well, sir, I am at your service. I'm staying quite nearby, you see.”

As he was leaving, Svidrigailov ran into Razumikhin in the doorway.

II

It was nearly eight o'clock by then; they hurried off to Bakaleev's, in order to arrive before Luzhin.

“Well, who was that?” Razumikhin asked, as soon as they were in the street.

“That was Svidrigailov, the landowner in whose house my sister was offended when she was serving there as a governess. She left them on account of his amorous pursuits, having been turned out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. Afterwards, this Marfa Petrovna begged Dunya's forgiveness, and now she has suddenly died. We were talking about her this morning. I don't know why, but I'm very afraid of the man. He came here right after his wife's funeral. He's very strange, and is set on something...He seems to know something...Dunya must be protected from him...that's what I wanted to tell you, do you hear?”

“Protected? But what can he do against Avdotya Romanovna? Well, thank you for telling me like this, Rodya...We'll protect her, that we will! ... Where does he live?”

“I don't know.”

“Why didn't you ask? Eh, too bad! But I'll find out!”

“Did you see him?” Raskolnikov asked, after some silence.

“Oh, yes, I noted him; I noted him well.”

“You're sure you saw him? Saw him clearly?” Raskolnikov insisted.

“Oh, yes, I remember him clearly; I'd know him in a thousand; I have a good memory for faces.”

Again there was a silence.

“Hm...well then . . .” Raskolnikov muttered. “Because, you know ... I was thinking...I keep imagining...it might have been a fantasy.”

“What's this all about? I don't quite understand you.”

“You've all been saying that I was mad,” Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile, “and just now I imagined that perhaps I really am mad and was only seeing a ghost!”

“But what is this about?”

“And who knows! Maybe I really am mad, and everything that's happened during these days, maybe everything is just my imagination . . .”

“Eh, Rodya, you've been upset again! ... But what did he say? Why did he come?”

Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumikhin reflected for a moment.

“Well, listen to my report,” he began. “I stopped by your place; you were asleep. Then we had dinner, and then I went to Porfiry's. Zamyotov was still there. I tried to begin, but nothing came of it. I just couldn't begin talking in a real way. It's as if they don't understand, and cannot understand, and are not at all embarrassed. I took Porfiry over to the window and began talking, but again for some reason it didn't come out right; he looked away, and I looked away. Finally I brought my fist up to his mug and said I was going to smash him, in a familial way. He just stared at me. I spat and left, that's all. Very stupid. Not a word between me and Zamyotov. Only, you see, I thought I'd fouled things up, but as I was going down the stairs it occurred to me, it just dawned on me: what are we fussing about, the two of us? If there was anything to it, or any danger for you, then of course. But what is it to you? You've got nothing to do with it, so spit on them; we'll have the laugh on them afterwards, and in your place I'd even start mystifying them. Because they'll really be ashamed afterwards! Spit on it; you can give them a beating afterwards, but for now let's laugh!”

“You're right, of course!” Raskolnikov replied. “But what will you say tomorrow?” he thought to himself. Strangely, until then it had never once occurred to him: “What will Razumikhin think when he finds out?” Having thought of it, Raskolnikov looked at him intently. As for Razumikhin's present report of his visit to Porfiry, he was not very interested in it: so much had been lost and gained since then! . . .

In the corridor they ran into Luzhin: he had arrived at eight o'clock sharp and was searching for the room, so that all three entered together, but without greeting or looking at one another. The young men went in first, while Pyotr Petrovich, for propriety's sake, lingered a little in the entryway, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna went at once to meet him at the threshold. Dunya was greeting her brother.

Pyotr Petrovich walked in and quite affably, though with redoubled solemnity, bowed to the ladies. However, he looked as though he had been slightly thrown off and had not yet found himself. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who also seemed embarrassed, hastened at once to seat everyone at the round table, on which a samovar was boiling. Dunya and Luzhin were placed opposite each other on two sides of the table. Razumikhin and Raskolnikov found themselves facing Pulcheria Alexandrovna—Razumikhin closer to Luzhin, Raskolnikov next to his sister.

A momentary silence ensued. Pyotr Petrovich unhurriedly pulled out a cambric handkerchief that gave off a whiff of scent, and blew his nose with the air of a man of virtue whose dignity has been somewhat offended and who, moreover, has firmly resolved to demand an explanation. While still in the entryway the thought had occurred to him of leaving without taking off his coat, thereby punishing the two ladies severely and impressively, so as to let them feel the whole weight of it. But he had not dared. Besides, the man did not like uncertainty, and here an explanation was called for: if his orders had been so openly defied, there must be something behind it, and therefore it was better to find it out now; as for punishment, there would always be time for that, and he had the upper hand.

“I trust the trip went well?” he addressed Pulcheria Alexandrovna in an official tone.

“Thank God, it did, Pyotr Petrovich.”

“Pleased to hear it, madam. And Avdotya Romanovna did not find it too tiring either?”

“I'm young and strong, I don't get tired, but it was very hard on mother.”

“There's no help for it; our nation's railways are quite long. Our so-called 'Mother Russia' is a vast country...And I, for all that I desired to do so, was simply unable to meet you. I trust, however, that everything went without any special trouble.”

“Ah, no, Pyotr Petrovich, we were very disheartened,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare, with a special intonation, “and would simply have perished if Dmitri Prokofych had not been sent to us, as I think, by God Himself. This is he, Dmitri Prokofych Razumikhin,” she added, introducing him to Luzhin.

“Indeed, I had the pleasure...yesterday,” Luzhin muttered, with an unfriendly sidelong glance at Razumikhin; then he frowned and fell silent. Generally speaking, Pyotr Petrovich belonged to that category of people who appear extremely affable in company, and with a special claim to affability, but who, as soon as something grates on them, instantly lose all their resources and begin to seem more like sacks of flour than offhand and convivial cavaliers. Everyone again fell silent; Raskolnikov was stubbornly silent, Avdotya Romanovna did not want to break the silence for the time being, Razumikhin had nothing to say—and so Pulcheria Alexandrovna started worrying again.

“Marfa Petrovna died, have you heard?” she began, falling back on her capital resource.

“Of course I have, madam. I was informed at the first rumor of it, and have even come now to tell you that Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov left in all haste for Petersburg immediately following his wife's funeral. That is so, at least, according to the most precise reports which I have received.”

“To Petersburg? Here?” Dunechka asked worriedly, and she exchanged glances with her mother.

“Just so, madam, and surely not without purpose, considering the hastiness of his departure and the preceding circumstances in general.”

“Lord! But can it be that he will not leave Dunechka alone even here?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna exclaimed.

“It seems to me that there is nothing to be particularly worried about, either for you or for Avdotya Romanovna, unless, of course, you yourselves wish to enter into some sort of relations with him. For my part, I am watching, and am now seeking to discover where he is staying . . .”

“Ah, Pyotr Petrovich, you wouldn't believe how you frightened me just now!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on. “I have seen him only twice, but I found him terrible, terrible! I'm sure he was the cause of the late Marfa Petrovna's death.”

“Concerning that, no conclusion is possible. I have precise information. I will not dispute that he perhaps contributed to hastening the course of events, so to speak, by the moral influence of his offense; but concerning the behavior and the moral characteristics of the person in general, I agree with you. I do not know whether he is rich now or precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; that will be known to me very shortly; but, of course, here in Petersburg, with at least some financial means, he will at once resume his old habits. He is the most depraved and vice-ridden of all men of his sort! I have significant grounds for supposing that Marfa Petrovna, who had the misfortune of falling so much in love with him and redeeming him from his debts eight years ago, served him in still another respect: solely as the result of her efforts and sacrifices, a criminal case was snuffed out at the very start, a case having a tinge of brutal and, so to speak, fantastic evildoing, for which he could quite, quite possibly have taken a trip to Siberia. That is what the man is like, if you wish to know.”

“Ah, Lord!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov was listening attentively.

“And it's true that you have precise information about it?” Dunya asked sternly and imposingly.

“I say only what I myself heard in confidence from the late Marfa Petrovna. It should be noted that the case is rather obscure from a legal point of view. There was living here, and I believe she still lives here, a certain foreign woman named Resslich, a small-time money-lender, and engaged in other affairs as well. Mr. Svidrigailov had long been in some sort of rather close and mysterious relations with this Resslich. She had a distant relative living with her, a niece I think, a deaf and dumb girl of about fifteen, or even fourteen, whom this Resslich hated beyond measure and reproached for every morsel; she even used to beat her brutally. One day the girl was found hanging in the attic. The verdict was suicide. After the customary proceedings, the case was closed, but later there came a report that the child had been...cruelly abused by Svidrigailov. True, it was all obscure; the report came from another woman, also a German, a notorious woman and not to be trusted; in the end, essentially, there was no report, thanks to Marfa Petrovna's efforts and money; everything confined itself to rumor. Nevertheless, this rumor was highly portentous. While there, Avdotya Romanovna, you undoubtedly also heard about a story involving the servant Filipp, who died of brutal treatment about six years ago, still in the time of serfdom.”

“I heard, on the contrary, that this Filipp hanged himself.”

“Just so, madam; but he was driven or, better, inclined towards a violent death by Mr. Svidrigailov's system of constant punishments and persecutions.”

“That I do not know,” Dunya answered dryly. “I only heard some very strange story that this Filipp was a sort of hypochondriac, a sort of homemade philosopher; they said he 'read himself up,' and that he most likely hanged himself because of Mr. Svidrigailov's mockery, and not from any beatings. He treated the servants well while I was there, and they even liked him, though they, too, indeed accused him of Filipp's death.”

“I see, Avdotya Romanovna, that you are somehow suddenly inclined to justify him,” Luzhin remarked, twisting his mouth into an ambiguous smile. “He really is a cunning and seductive man when it comes to ladies, of which Marfa Petrovna, who died so strangely, serves as a lamentable example. I merely wanted to be of service to you and your mother with my advice, in view of his new and undoubtedly forthcoming attempts. As for me, I am firmly convinced that the man will undoubtedly disappear once again into debtors' prison. Marfa Petrovna by no means ever had the slightest intention of binding anything over to him, having her children to consider, and if she did leave him anything, it is only the most necessary, of little worth, ephemeral, not enough to last a man of his habits for even a year.”

“Pyotr Petrovich, I beg you,” said Dunya, “let us stop talking about Mr. Svidrigailov. It makes me weary.”

“He just came to see me,” Raskolnikov suddenly said, breaking his silence for the first time.

There were exclamations on all sides; everyone turned to him. Even Pyotr Petrovich became excited.

“About an hour and a half ago, while I was sleeping, he came in, woke me up, and introduced himself,” Raskolnikov continued. “He was rather offhand and cheerful, and fully hopes I will become close with him. By the way, he very much begs and seeks to meet with you, Dunya, and has asked me to be an intermediary at this meeting. He has an offer for you; he told me what it was. Moreover, he informed me positively that Marfa Petrovna managed, a week before her death, to make a bequest of three thousand roubles to you, Dunya, and that now you will be able to have the money in the very nearest future.”

“Thank God!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out, and she crossed herself. “Pray for her, Dunya, pray for her!”

“That is actually true,” escaped from Luzhin.

“Well, well, what else?” Dunya hurried.

“Then he said that he himself was not rich, that all the property would go to his children, who are now with their aunt. Then, that he was staying somewhere not far from me, but where, I don't know, I didn't ask . . .”

“But what, what does he want to offer Dunechka?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked, frightened. “Did he tell you?”

“Yes, he did.”

“What is it?”

“I'll tell you later.” Raskolnikov fell silent and turned to his tea.

Pyotr Petrovich took out his watch and looked at it.

“I must go and attend to some business, and thus will not be in your way,” he added, looking somewhat piqued, and he began to rise from his chair.

“Do stay, Pyotr Petrovich,” said Dunya. “You were planning to spend the evening. Besides, you yourself wrote that you wished to talk with mama about something.”

“Just so, Avdotya Romanovna,” Pyotr Petrovich said imposingly, taking his seat again, but still holding his hat in his hand. “Indeed, I wanted to talk both with you and with your most respected mother, and even about some quite important points. However, just as your brother is unable to speak in my presence concerning certain offers from Mr. Svidrigailov, so I am unwilling and unable to speak...in the presence of others...concerning certain quite, quite important points. Furthermore, my capital and most urgent request has not been fulfilled...”

Luzhin assumed a bitter expression and lapsed into dignified silence.

“Your request that my brother not be present at our meeting was not fulfilled solely at my insistence,” said Dunya. “You wrote that my brother had insulted you; I think that this ought to be explained at once, and that you should make peace. And if Rodya did indeed insult you, he mustand willask your forgiveness.”

Pyotr Petrovich immediately showed his mettle.

“There are certain insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which, for all one's good will, cannot be forgotten. There is a line in all things that it is dangerous to step over; for once one steps over, it is impossible to go back.”

“As a matter of fact, Pyotr Petrovich, that is not what I was talking about,” Dunya interrupted a little impatiently. “Do try to understand that our whole future depends on whether all this can or cannot be clarified and settled as soon as possible. I tell you outright, from the first word, that I cannot look upon it any other way, and if you value me at all, then, hard as it may be, this whole story must end today. I repeat that if my brother is at fault, he will ask your forgiveness.”

“I am surprised that you put the question in such a way, Avdotya Romanovna.” Luzhin was becoming more and more irritated. “While valuing and, so to speak, adoring you, I may at the same time quite, quite dislike someone of your household. Having claimed the happiness of your hand, I cannot at the same time take upon myself obligations incompatible with...”

“Ah, drop all this touchiness, Pyotr Petrovich,” Dunya interrupted with feeling, “and be the noble and intelligent man I have always considered and want to consider you to be. I gave you a great promise, I am your fiancée; trust me in this matter, then, and believe me capable of judging impartially. That I am taking upon myself the role of judge is as much a surprise for my brother as it is for you. When I asked him today, after receiving your letter, to be sure to come to our meeting, I told him nothing of my intentions. Understand that if you do not make peace I shall have to choose between you: either you or him. That is how the question has been put both on his side and on yours. I do not want to make a wrong choice, and I must not. For your sake, I must break with my brother; for my brother's sake, I must break with you. I can and will find out now for certain whether he is a brother to me. And, about you, whether you appreciate me, whether you value me, whether you are a husband to me.”

“Avdotya Romanovna,” Luzhin pronounced, wincing, “your words are of all too great an import for me; I will say more, they are even offensive, in view of the position I have the honor of occupying in relation to you. To say nothing of the offensive and strange juxtaposition, on the same level, of myself and...a presumptuous youth, you allow, by your words, for the possibility of breaking the promise I was given. 'Either you or him,' you say, and thereby show me how little I mean to you...I cannot allow it, in view of the relations and...obligations existing between us.”

“What!” Dunya flared up. “I place your interests alongside all that has so far been precious in my life, all that has so far constituted the wholeof my life, and you are suddenly offended because I attach so littlevalue to you!”

Raskolnikov smiled silently and caustically. Razumikhin cringed all over. But Pyotr Petrovich did not accept the objection; on the contrary, he grew more importunate and irritable with every word, as though he were acquiring a taste for it.

“Love for one's future life-companion, a future husband, ought to exceed the love for one's brother,” he pronounced sententiously, “and in any case I am not to be placed on the same level...Although I insisted before that in your brother's presence I could not and did not wish to explain all that I came to say, I shall nevertheless ask your much respected mother here and now for the necessary explanation of one point I consider quite capital and offensive to myself. Yesterday,” he turned to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “in the presence of Mr. Rassudkin (or...is that right? Excuse me, I've forgotten your last name)”—he bowed politely to Razumikhin <sup>[94]94
  Razumikhin has earlier played on the sound of his name (see Part Two, note 10). Here Luzhin is misled by its meaning. "Rassudkin" comes from rassudok:reason, intellect, common sense.


[Закрыть]</sup> —”your son offended me by distorting a thought I once expressed to you in private conversation, over coffee: namely, that marriage to a poor girl who has already experienced life's grief is, in my view, more profitable with regard to matrimony than marriage to one who has known prosperity, for it is better for morality. Your son deliberately exaggerated the meaning of my words to absurdity, accusing me of malicious intentions, and basing himself, as I think, on your own correspondence. I shall count myself happy, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, if you prove able to reassure me in the opposite sense and thereby set my mind considerably at rest. Tell me, then, in precisely what terms did you convey my words in your letter to Rodion Romanovich?”

“I don't remember,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna was thrown off, “but I told it as I myself understood it. I don't know how Rodya told it to you. Perhaps he did exaggerate something.”

“He could not have exaggerated without some suggestion from you.”

“Pyotr Petrovich,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with dignity, “that we are hereis proof that Dunya and I did not take your words in a very bad way.”

“Well done, mama!” Dunya said approvingly.

“Then I am to blame in this as well!” Luzhin became offended.

“Now, Pyotr Petrovich, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself also wrote us something untrue about him in today's letter,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, taking heart.

“I do not recall writing anything that was not true, madam.”

“You wrote,” Raskolnikov said sharply, without turning to Luzhin, “that I gave money yesterday not to the widow of the man who was run over, as it was in reality, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen until yesterday). You wrote it in order to make me quarrel with my family, and to that end added some vile expressions about the behavior of a girl whom you do not know. All that is gossip and meanness.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Luzhin replied, trembling with anger, “in my letter I enlarged upon your qualities and actions solely to fulfill thereby the request of your dear sister and your mama that I describe to them how I found you and what impression you made on me. With regard to what I mentioned in my letter, find even one line that is not right—that is, that you did not spend the money, and that in that family, unfortunate as they may be, there are no unworthy persons!”

“And I say that you, with all your virtues, are not worth the little finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you are casting a stone.”

“Meaning that you might even decide to introduce her into the company of your mother and sister?”

“I have already done so, if you want to know. I sat her down beside mama and Dunya today.”

“Rodya!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Dunechka blushed; Razumikhin knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled haughtily and sarcastically.

“You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,” he said, “whether any agreement is possible here. I hope that the matter is now ended and explained once and for all. And I shall withdraw so as not to interfere with the further pleasantness of this family reunion and the imparting of secrets” (he rose from the chair and took his hat). “But in leaving I will venture to remark that henceforth I hope to be spared such meetings and, so to speak, compromises. On this subject I address myself particularly to you, most respected Pulcheria Alexandrovna, the more so as my letter was intended for you and you alone.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna became slightly offended.

“Why, you're really going about getting us into your power, Pyotr Petrovich. Dunya told you the reason why your wish was not fulfilled; her intentions were good. And, besides, you wrote to me as if it were an order. Should we really regard your every wish as an order? I will tell you, on the contrary, that you ought now to be especially delicate and forbearing towards us, because we have dropped everything and come here, entrusting ourselves to you, and therefore are almost in your power as it is.”

“That is not quite correct, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at the present moment, when Marfa Petrovna's legacy of three thousand roubles has just been announced—which seems to be very opportune, judging by the new tone in which I am being addressed,” he added caustically.

“Judging by that remark, it may be supposed that you were indeed counting on our helplessness,” Dunya observed irritably.

“But now, in any case, I cannot do so, and I especially have no wish to hinder the conveying of Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov's secret offers, with which he has empowered your dear brother, and which, as I perceive, have a capital, and perhaps also rather pleasant, significance for you.”

“Ah, my God!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Razumikhin kept fidgeting in his chair.

“Well, sister, are you ashamed now?” asked Raskolnikov.

“Yes, I am ashamed, Rodya,” said Dunya. “Pyotr Petrovich, get out!” she turned to him, pale with wrath.

Pyotr Petrovich was apparently not at all expecting such an outcome. He had relied too much on himself, on his power, on the helplessness of his victims. Even now he did not believe it. He became pale, and his lips trembled.