Chapter 3 of 41

III

He woke the next day late, after troubled sleep, but the sleep had not refreshed him. He woke bilious, irritable, angry, and looked with hatred at his little room. It was a tiny cell, about six paces long, presenting the most miserable appearance with its dusty, yellowish wallpaper peeling away from the walls everywhere, and so low-ceilinged that a tall person would feel uneasy in it, constantly fearing they might bump their head on the ceiling. The furniture matched the room: there were three old chairs, not quite sound, a painted table in the corner on which lay several notebooks and books; the dust that covered them alone showed that no hand had touched them for a long time; and finally, a large, ungainly sofa that took up almost the entire wall and half the width of the whole room, once upholstered in chintz but now in tatters, serving as Raskolnikov's bed. Often he slept on it just as he was, without undressing, without a sheet, covering himself with his old, worn student's coat, with one small pillow at his head, under which he placed all the linen he had, clean and worn alike, to raise his head higher. Before the sofa stood a small table.

It would be hard to sink lower into neglect and slovenliness; but Raskolnikov found it almost pleasant in his present state of mind. He had decisively withdrawn from everyone, like a tortoise into its shell, and even the face of the servant girl who was obliged to wait on him and sometimes looked into his room aroused bile and convulsions in him. This happens with certain monomaniacs who have concentrated too intensely on something. His landlady had stopped sending him meals two weeks ago, and he had not yet thought to go down and have it out with her, though he was going without dinner. Nastasya, the cook and the landlady's only servant, was partly glad of the lodger's mood and had completely stopped cleaning and sweeping his room, only taking up the broom once a week, by chance. She was the one who woke him now.

"Get up, why are you sleeping!" she shouted over him. "It's ten o'clock. I brought you tea; do you want some tea? I expect you're starving?"

The lodger opened his eyes, started, and recognized Nastasya.

"The tea—is it from the landlady?" he asked, slowly and with a sickly look, raising himself on the sofa.

"What landlady!"

She set before him her own cracked teapot with already-used tea, and laid out two yellow lumps of sugar.

"Here, Nastasya, please take this," he said, fumbling in his pocket (he had slept fully dressed) and pulling out a handful of copper coins, "go and buy me a roll. And get some sausage from the butcher's, the cheapest kind."

"I'll bring you a roll this very minute, but wouldn't you rather have some cabbage soup instead of sausage? Good soup, from yesterday. I saved it for you yesterday, but you came back late. Good soup."

When the soup was brought and he set about eating it, Nastasya sat down beside him on the sofa and began to chatter. She was a country woman and a very talkative one.

"Praskovya Pavlovna wants to complain to the police about you," she said.

He frowned deeply.

"To the police? What does she want?"

"You don't pay money and you don't move out of the apartment. It's obvious what she wants."

"Eh, that's all I needed now," he muttered, grinding his teeth. "No, that's... inconvenient for me right now... She's a fool," he added aloud. "I'll go see her today, have a talk."

"She's a fool, a fool just like me, but what about you, smart one, lying there like a sack, nothing to be seen from you? You say you used to go teach children, so why don't you do anything now?"

"I'm doing..." Raskolnikov spoke reluctantly and sternly.

"What are you doing?"

"Work..."

"What work?"

"Thinking," he answered seriously after a pause.

Nastasya simply shook with laughter. She was prone to laughter and, when made to laugh, would laugh silently, heaving and shaking all over, until she felt sick.

"Have you thought up a lot of money?" she finally managed to say.

"You can't teach children without boots. Besides, to hell with it."

"Don't spit in the well."

"They pay copper for children. What can you do with kopecks?" he continued reluctantly, as if answering his own thoughts.

"And you want the whole capital all at once?"

He looked at her strangely.

"Yes, the whole capital," he answered firmly after a pause.

"Well, take it easy, or you'll scare me; it's scary enough already. Are you going for the roll or not?"

"As you like."

"Oh, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday while you were out."

"A letter! For me! From whom?"

"From whom, I don't know. I gave the postman three kopecks of my own money. Will you pay me back?"

"Then bring it, for God's sake, bring it!" cried Raskolnikov in great agitation. "Good Lord!"

A minute later the letter appeared. Just as he thought: from his mother, from R— Province. He even turned pale as he took it. It had been a long time since he had received any letters; but now something else suddenly clutched at his heart.

"Nastasya, go away, for God's sake; here are your three kopecks, only for God's sake, go away quickly!"

The letter trembled in his hands; he did not want to unseal it in her presence: he wanted to be alone with this letter. When Nastasya left, he quickly raised it to his lips and kissed it; then he gazed for a long time at the handwriting of the address, at the familiar, dear, small, slanting handwriting of his mother, who had once taught him to read and write. He hesitated; he even seemed to fear something. At last he unsealed it: the letter was long, thick, two ounces; two large sheets of paper were covered with tiny, tiny writing.

"My dear Rodya," his mother wrote, "it's now more than two months since I corresponded with you by letter, for which I myself have suffered and even spent sleepless nights thinking. But surely you won't blame me for this involuntary silence. You know how I love you; you are all we have, Dunya and I, you are our everything, all our hope, all our trust. What I felt when I learned that you had left the university several months ago, having no means to support yourself, and that your lessons and other resources had ceased! How could I help you with my hundred and twenty rubles a year pension? The fifteen rubles I sent you four months ago I borrowed, as you know, against this same pension, from our local merchant Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin. He's a kind man and was a friend of your father's. But having given him the right to receive the pension for me, I had to wait until the debt was paid off, which has only just now been done, so that I couldn't send you anything all this time. But now, thank God, I think I can send you more, and indeed we can even boast of good fortune now, about which I hasten to inform you. And first of all, can you guess, dear Rodya, that your sister has been living with me for a month and a half now, and we won't be parted anymore in the future. Thank God, her torments are over, but I'll tell you everything in order, so that you'll know how it all was and what we've kept from you until now. When you wrote me two months ago that you had heard from someone that Dunya was suffering much from rudeness in the house of Mr. Svidrigailov, and asked me for exact explanations—what could I write you in reply then? If I had written you the whole truth, you might have thrown everything up and come to us, even on foot, because I know your character and feelings, and you wouldn't have allowed your sister to be insulted. I myself was in despair, but what could I do? I didn't know the whole truth myself then. The main difficulty was that when Dunechka entered their house last year as governess, she took a whole hundred rubles in advance, on condition of monthly deductions from her salary, and therefore it was impossible to leave the position without paying off the debt. She took this sum (now I can explain everything to you, precious Rodya) mainly in order to send you the sixty rubles you needed so badly then, which you received from us last year. We deceived you then, writing that it was from Dunechka's previously saved money, but that wasn't so, and now I'm telling you the whole truth, because everything has now suddenly changed, by God's will, for the better, and so that you'll know how much Dunya loves you and what a priceless heart she has. Mr. Svidrigailov did indeed at first treat her very rudely and made various discourtesies and mockeries of her at table... But I don't want to go into all these painful details, so as not to upset you needlessly, when it's all over now. In short, despite the kind and noble treatment of Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigailov's wife, and all the household, Dunechka had a very hard time, especially when Mr. Svidrigailov was, according to his old regimental habit, under the influence of Bacchus. But what came out afterward? Imagine that this madman had long harbored a passion for Dunya, but had always concealed it under the guise of rudeness and contempt for her. Perhaps he was ashamed himself and horrified to see himself already advanced in years and a family man with such frivolous hopes, and therefore involuntarily became angry at Dunya. And perhaps, too, he wanted to hide the whole truth from others by his rude treatment and mockeries. But finally he couldn't restrain himself and dared to make Dunya an open and vile proposition, promising her various rewards and moreover to throw everything up and run away with her to another estate or perhaps abroad. You can imagine all her sufferings! It was impossible to leave the position at once, not only because of the monetary debt, but also out of consideration for Marfa Petrovna, who might suddenly become suspicious, and consequently there would have been discord in the family. And it would have been a great scandal for Dunechka too; it couldn't have been avoided. There were many other reasons as well, so that Dunya couldn't hope to escape from that terrible house for less than six weeks. Of course, you know Dunya, Rodya. You know how intelligent she is and what a firm character she has. Dunechka can endure much and even in the most extreme cases find enough magnanimity in herself not to lose her firmness. She didn't even write me about everything so as not to upset me, though we corresponded frequently. The denouement came unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna accidentally overheard her husband pleading with Dunechka in the garden and, understanding everything incorrectly, blamed her for everything, thinking that she was the cause of it all. A terrible scene took place right there in the garden: Marfa Petrovna even struck Dunya, wouldn't listen to anything, and shouted for a whole hour herself, and finally ordered Dunya to be taken to me in town at once, in a simple peasant cart into which all her things, linen, dresses, everything was thrown just as it happened, not tied up or packed. And then a pouring rain started, and Dunya, insulted and disgraced, had to travel with a peasant for a whole seventeen versts in an uncovered cart. Now think what I could have written you in a letter in reply to yours, received by me two months ago, and what to write about? I myself was in despair; I didn't dare write you the truth, because you would have been very unhappy, grieved and indignant, and what could you have done? You might have ruined yourself, and besides Dunechka forbade it; and to fill a letter with trifles and about something or other, when such grief was in my soul, I couldn't. Gossip about this story went all over our town for a whole month, and it got to the point where Dunya and I couldn't even go to church because of contemptuous looks and whispers, and there were even conversations spoken aloud in our presence. All our acquaintances shunned us, everyone even stopped bowing to us, and I learned for certain that some merchants' clerks and some office workers wanted to inflict a base insult on us by smearing our gate with tar, so that the landlords began to demand that we move out of the apartment. The cause of all this was Marfa Petrovna, who managed to accuse and disgrace Dunya in all the houses. She knows everyone here and visited town constantly that month, and as she's somewhat talkative and likes to talk about her family affairs and especially to complain about her husband to all and sundry, which is very bad, she spread the whole story in a short time not only in town but throughout the district. I fell ill, but Dunechka was firmer than I, and if you had seen how she endured everything and comforted and encouraged me! She's an angel! But by God's mercy, our torments were cut short: Mr. Svidrigailov came to his senses and repented and, probably taking pity on Dunya, presented Marfa Petrovna with full and obvious proof of all Dunechka's innocence, namely: a letter that Dunya had been forced to write and give him before the time when Marfa Petrovna found them in the garden, to decline personal explanations and secret meetings which he insisted upon, and which, after Dunechka's departure, remained in Mr. Svidrigailov's hands. In this letter she reproached him in the most ardent manner and with complete indignation precisely for the ignobility of his conduct toward Marfa Petrovna, reminded him that he was a father and family man and that, finally, how base it was on his part to torment and make miserable a girl already unfortunate and defenseless. In a word, dear Rodya, this letter was written so nobly and touchingly that I wept reading it, and to this day I cannot read it without tears. Moreover, in Dunya's vindication, there finally appeared testimony from the servants, who had seen and knew far more than Mr. Svidrigailov himself supposed, as is always the case. Marfa Petrovna was completely astounded and 'crushed anew,' as she herself acknowledged to us, but she was fully convinced of Dunechka's innocence and the very next day, Sunday, going straight to the cathedral, on her knees and in tears she begged the Virgin to give her strength to bear this new trial and fulfill her duty. Then, straight from the cathedral, without stopping anywhere, she came to us, told us everything, wept bitterly and, in complete repentance, embraced and begged Dunya to forgive her. That same morning, without delay, straight from our place, she went to all the houses in town and everywhere, in the most flattering expressions for Dunechka, shedding tears, restored her innocence and the nobility of her feelings and conduct. Moreover, she showed everyone and read aloud Dunechka's own letter to Mr. Svidrigailov and even let them copy it (which seems to me even excessive). Thus she had to spend several days visiting everyone in town, as some took offense that others had been given preference, and thus turns were established, so that in each house they were already waiting in advance and everyone knew that on such-and-such a day Marfa Petrovna would be at such-and-such a place to read this letter, and at each reading there gathered again even those who had already heard the letter several times both at their own homes and at other acquaintances', in turn. My opinion is that much, very much, of this was excessive; but that's Marfa Petrovna's character. At least she fully restored Dunechka's honor, and all the vileness of this affair fell as an indelible disgrace on her husband, as the chief culprit, so that I even feel sorry for him; the madman was dealt with too severely. Dunya was immediately invited to give lessons in several houses, but she refused. In general, everyone suddenly began to treat her with particular respect. All this contributed mainly to the unexpected occurrence through which, one might say, our whole fate is now changing. You should know, dear Rodya, that Dunya has had a suitor and that she has already managed to give her consent, of which I hasten to inform you as soon as possible. And although this matter was done without your advice, you probably won't hold it against either me or your sister, as you'll see from the matter itself that it would have been impossible for us to wait and postpone until receiving your answer. And you couldn't have judged everything accurately from a distance anyway. It happened like this. He's already a court councillor, Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin, and a distant relative of Marfa Petrovna, who contributed much to this. He began by expressing through her his desire to meet us, was received properly, had coffee with us, and the very next day sent a letter in which he very politely explained his proposal and asked for a quick and decisive answer. He's a businesslike and busy man, and is now hurrying to Petersburg, so he values every minute. Of course, we were very astonished at first, as it all happened too quickly and unexpectedly. We considered and deliberated together all that day. He's a reliable and secure man, serves in two places and already has his own capital. True, he's already forty-five years old, but he's of fairly pleasant appearance and can still be attractive to women, and in general he's a very solid and proper man, only somewhat morose and as if haughty. But this may be only how it seems at first glance. And I warn you, dear Rodya, when you meet him in Petersburg, which will happen very soon, don't judge too quickly and hotly, as is natural to you, if at first glance something about him doesn't seem right to you. I say this just in case, though I'm confident he'll make a pleasant impression on you. And besides, to get to know any person, one must approach them gradually and cautiously, so as not to fall into error and prejudice, which are very difficult to correct and smooth over afterward. And Pyotr Petrovich, at least by many signs, is a very respectable man. On his very first visit he declared to us that he's a practical man, but in many things shares, as he himself expressed it, 'the convictions of our younger generations' and is an enemy of all prejudices. He said many other things too, because he's somewhat vain and very much likes to be listened to, but that's hardly a vice. I, of course, understood little, but Dunya explained to me that he's a man of little education but intelligent and, it seems, kind. You know your sister's character, Rodya. She's a firm, sensible, patient and magnanimous girl, though with an ardent heart, which I've studied well in her. Of course, there's no particular love on either her side or his, but Dunya, besides being an intelligent girl, is also a noble creature, like an angel, and will make it her duty to ensure her husband's happiness, who in turn would take care of her happiness, and we have no great reason to doubt the latter so far, although, admittedly, it was done rather quickly. Moreover, he's a very calculating man and will of course see for himself that his own marital happiness will be the more secure the happier Dunechka is with him. And as for some unevenness in character, some old habits and even some disagreement in thoughts (which can't be avoided even in the happiest marriages), on this account Dunechka herself told me that she relies on herself, that there's nothing to worry about and that she can endure much, provided that further relations are honest and just. He seemed somewhat abrupt to me at first, for instance; but this may be precisely because he's a straightforward man, and it's certainly so. For example, at his second visit, having already received our consent, he expressed in conversation that even before, not knowing Dunya, he had decided to marry an honest girl but without a dowry, and necessarily one who had already experienced a distressed situation; because, as he explained, a husband should owe nothing to his wife, but it's much better if the wife considers her husband her benefactor. I'll add that he expressed himself somewhat more softly and tenderly than I've written, because I've forgotten the actual expression and remember only the thought, and besides, he said it by no means deliberately, but obviously let it slip in the heat of conversation, so that he even tried afterward to correct and soften it; but it still seemed to me somewhat abrupt, and I told Dunya about it later. But Dunya even answered me with annoyance that 'words are not yet deeds,' and this is of course true. Before deciding, Dunechka didn't sleep all night and, thinking I was already asleep, got out of bed and walked back and forth across the room all night; finally she knelt and prayed long and fervently before the icon, and in the morning she announced to me that she had decided.

I've already mentioned that Pyotr Petrovich is now leaving for Petersburg. He has important business there and wants to open a public law office in Petersburg. He's been involved in various lawsuits and litigation for a long time and just recently won one significant lawsuit. He also must go to Petersburg because he has one important case in the Senate. Thus, dear Rodya, he can be very useful to you, even in everything, and Dunya and I have already decided that from this very day you could definitely begin your future career and consider your fate as already clearly determined. Oh, if only this would come true! This would be such an advantage that we should consider it nothing less than direct mercy from the Almighty to us. Dunya dreams of nothing else. We've already ventured to say a few words about this to Pyotr Petrovich. He expressed himself cautiously and said that, of course, since he can't do without a secretary, it would naturally be better to pay a salary to a relative than to a stranger, if the former proves capable of the position (as if you wouldn't prove capable!), but at the same time he also expressed doubt that your university studies wouldn't leave you time for work in his office. For now the matter ended there, but Dunya thinks of nothing else now. She's been in a kind of fever for several days now and has already composed a whole plan about how you could later become Pyotr Petrovich's partner and even companion in his legal practice, especially since you're in the law faculty yourself. I, Rodya, fully agree with her and share all her plans and hopes, seeing complete probability in them; and despite Pyotr Petrovich's present, very understandable evasiveness (because he doesn't know you yet), Dunya is firmly convinced that she'll achieve everything through her good influence on her future husband, and she's confident of this. Of course, we took care not to let slip to Pyotr Petrovich anything about these further dreams of ours and especially about you becoming his partner. He's a practical man and might take it very dryly, as all this would seem to him mere daydreams. Likewise, neither I nor Dunya has yet said half a word to him about our firm hope that he'll help us assist you with money while you're at the university; we didn't speak of it because, first, this will happen of itself later, and he'll surely offer it himself without unnecessary words (as if he would refuse Dunechka in this!) all the more so as you yourself may become his right hand in the office and receive this assistance not in the form of charity but in the form of salary earned by you. That's how Dunechka wants to arrange it, and I fully agree with her. Secondly, we didn't speak of it because I especially wanted to put you on an equal footing with him at our now impending meeting. When Dunya spoke to him enthusiastically about you, he replied that one needs to examine any person first oneself and more closely in order to judge them, and that he reserves for himself, upon meeting you, to form his own opinion of you. You know what, my priceless Rodya, it seems to me, based on certain considerations (however, by no means relating to Pyotr Petrovich, but just based on some of my own personal, perhaps even old-womanish, feminine whims)—it seems to me that I might do better if I live separately after their marriage, as I do now, and not together with them. I'm fully convinced that he'll be noble and delicate enough to invite me himself and offer that I not be separated from my daughter anymore, and if he hasn't spoken of it yet, it's of course because it's assumed without words; but I'll refuse. I've noticed in life more than once that mothers-in-law aren't very dear to husbands' hearts, and I not only don't want to be even the slightest burden to anyone, but I myself want to be completely free, as long as I have at least some crust of my own and such children as you and Dunechka. If possible, I'll settle near you both, because, Rodya, I've saved the most pleasant thing for the end of the letter: know then, my dear friend, that perhaps very soon we'll all be together again and embrace all three of us after almost three years of separation! It's already definitely decided that Dunya and I are leaving for Petersburg, exactly when I don't know, but in any case very, very soon, perhaps even in a week. It all depends on Pyotr Petrovich's arrangements, who, as soon as he gets his bearings in Petersburg, will immediately let us know. For certain reasons he wants to hurry the wedding ceremony as much as possible and even, if it's possible, to have the wedding in the current Shrovetide period, and if it won't work out because of the shortness of time, then immediately after the Assumption. Oh, with what happiness I'll press you to my heart! Dunya is all in excitement from the joy of seeing you, and said once, jokingly, that she'd marry Pyotr Petrovich for this alone. She's an angel! She's not writing anything to you now, but told me to write that she has so much, so much to say to you that now her hand won't rise to take up the pen, because you can't write anything in a few lines, but will only upset yourself; she told me to embrace you tight and send you countless kisses. But despite the fact that we may very soon meet in person, I'll still send you money in a few days, as much as I can. Now that everyone knows that Dunechka is marrying Pyotr Petrovich, my credit has suddenly increased, and I know for certain that Afanasy Ivanovich will now trust me, against my pension, even up to seventy-five rubles, so that I may be able to send you perhaps twenty-five or even thirty rubles. I'd send more, but I'm afraid for our travel expenses; and although Pyotr Petrovich was so kind as to take upon himself part of the costs of our journey to the capital, namely, he himself undertook, at his own expense, to deliver our luggage and large trunk (somehow through his acquaintances there), we still have to calculate for our arrival in Petersburg, where we can't appear without a kopeck, at least for the first days. However, we've already calculated everything with Dunechka down to the last detail, and it turned out that the journey won't cost much. It's only ninety versts from us to the railroad, and we've already, just in case, made arrangements with a peasant carter we know; and from there Dunechka and I will travel quite comfortably in third class. So that perhaps I'll manage to send you not twenty-five but certainly thirty rubles. But enough; I've filled two sheets all around, and there's no more space left; our whole history; well, and so many events have accumulated! And now, my priceless Rodya, I embrace you until our imminent meeting and bless you with my maternal blessing. Love Dunya, your sister, Rodya; love her as she loves you, and know that she loves you boundlessly, more than herself. She's an angel, and you, Rodya, you are our everything—all our hope and all our trust. If only you were happy, we'll be happy. Do you still pray to God, Rodya, as before, and do you believe in the goodness of our creator and redeemer? I fear in my heart that you too may have been visited by the latest fashionable unbelief? If so, I pray for you. Remember, dear, how still in your childhood, during your father's lifetime, you lisped your prayers on my knees and how happy we all were then! Farewell, or rather, till we meet! I embrace you tight, tight and kiss you countless times.

Yours till the grave

Pulcheria Raskolnikova."

Almost the entire time Raskolnikov was reading, from the very beginning of the letter, his face was wet with tears; but when he finished, it was pale, contorted with convulsions, and a heavy, bilious, evil smile writhed on his lips. He laid his head on his meager and threadbare pillow and thought, thought for a long time. His heart beat violently, and his thoughts churned violently. Finally he felt stifled and cramped in this yellow little room, like a closet or a trunk. His gaze and thoughts demanded space. He grabbed his hat and went out, this time no longer fearing to meet anyone on the stairs; he had forgotten about that. He headed in the direction of Vasilievsky Island via V— Prospect, as if hurrying there on business, but, according to his habit, walked without noticing the road, whispering to himself and even speaking aloud to himself, which greatly surprised passersby. Many took him for drunk.