Crime and Punishment & Other Great Novels of Dostoevsky. Fyodor DostoevskyЧитать онлайн книгу.
learning all at once. I can be of use because I have experience. For nearly two years I’ve been scuttling about among the publishers, and now I know every detail of their business. You need not be a saint to make pots, believe me! And why, why should we let our chance slip! Why, I know — and I kept the secret — two or three books which one might get a hundred roubles simply for thinking of translating and publishing. Indeed, and I would not take five hundred for the very idea of one of them. And what do you think? If I were to tell a publisher, I dare say he’d hesitate — they are such blockheads! And as for the business side, printing, paper, selling, you trust to me, I know my way about. We’ll begin in a small way and go on to a large. In any case it will get us our living and we shall get back our capital.”
Dounia’s eyes shone.
“I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!” she said.
“I know nothing about it, of course,” put in Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “it may be a good idea, but again God knows. It’s new and untried. Of course, we must remain here at least for a time.” She looked at Rodya.
“What do you think, brother?” said Dounia.
“I think he’s got a very good idea,” he answered. “Of course, it’s too soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we certainly might bring out five or six books and be sure of success. I know of one book myself which would be sure to go well. And as for his being able to manage it, there’s no doubt about that either. He knows the business. . . . But we can talk it over later . . . .”
“Hurrah!” cried Razumihin. “Now, stay, there’s a flat here in this house, belonging to the same owner. It’s a special flat apart, not communicating with these lodgings. It’s furnished, rent moderate, three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I’ll pawn your watch to-morrow and bring you the money, and everything can be arranged then. You can all three live together, and Rodya will be with you. But where are you off to, Rodya?”
“What, Rodya, you are going already?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in dismay.
“At such a minute?” cried Razumihin.
Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. He held his cap in his hand, he was preparing to leave them.
“One would think you were burying me or saying good-bye for ever,” he said somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, but it did not turn out a smile. “But who knows, perhaps it is the last time we shall see each other . . .” he let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and it somehow was uttered aloud.
“What is the matter with you?” cried his mother.
“Where are you going, Rodya?” asked Dounia rather strangely.
“Oh, I’m quite obliged to . . .” he answered vaguely, as though hesitating what he would say. But there was a look of sharp determination in his white face.
“I meant to say . . . as I was coming here . . . I meant to tell you, mother, and you, Dounia, that it would be better for us to part for a time. I feel ill, I am not at peace. . . . I will come afterwards, I will come of myself . . . when it’s possible. I remember you and love you. . . . Leave me, leave me alone. I decided this even before . . . I’m absolutely resolved on it. Whatever may come to me, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether, it’s better. Don’t inquire about me. When I can, I’ll come of myself or . . . I’ll send for you. Perhaps it will all come back, but now if you love me, give me up . . . else I shall begin to hate you, I feel it. . . . Good-bye!”
“Good God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his mother and his sister were terribly alarmed. Razumihin was also.
“Rodya, Rodya, be reconciled with us! Let us be as before!” cried his poor mother.
He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the room. Dounia overtook him.
“Brother, what are you doing to mother?” she whispered, her eyes flashing with indignation.
He looked dully at her.
“No matter, I shall come. . . . I’m coming,” he muttered in an undertone, as though not fully conscious of what he was saying, and he went out of the room.
“Wicked, heartless egoist!” cried Dounia.
“He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don’t you see it? You’re heartless after that!” Razumihin whispered in her ear, squeezing her hand tightly. “I shall be back directly,” he shouted to the horror-stricken mother, and he ran out of the room.
Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the passage.
“I knew you would run after me,” he said. “Go back to them — be with them . . . be with them to-morrow and always . . . . I . . . perhaps I shall come . . . if I can. Good-bye.”
And without holding out his hand he walked away.
“But where are you going? What are you doing? What’s the matter with you? How can you go on like this?” Razumihin muttered, at his wits’ end.
Raskolnikov stopped once more.
“Once for all, never ask me about anything. I have nothing to tell you. Don’t come to see me. Maybe I’ll come here . . . . Leave me, but don’t leave them. Do you understand me?”
It was dark in the corridor, they were standing near the lamp. For a minute they were looking at one another in silence. Razumihin remembered that minute all his life. Raskolnikov’s burning and intent eyes grew more penetrating every moment, piercing into his soul, into his consciousness. Suddenly Razumihin started. Something strange, as it were, passed between them. . . . Some idea, some hint, as it were, slipped, something awful, hideous, and suddenly understood on both sides. . . . Razumihin turned pale.
“Do you understand now?” said Raskolnikov, his face twitching nervously. “Go back, go to them,” he said suddenly, and turning quickly, he went out of the house.
I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin went back to the ladies, how he soothed them, how he protested that Rodya needed rest in his illness, protested that Rodya was sure to come, that he would come every day, that he was very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated, that he, Razumihin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, the best doctor, a consultation. . . . In fact from that evening Razumihin took his place with them as a son and a brother.
Chapter IV
Raskolnikov went straight to the house on the canal bank where Sonia lived. It was an old green house of three storeys. He found the porter and obtained from him vague directions as to the whereabouts of Kapernaumov, the tailor. Having found in the corner of the courtyard the entrance to the dark and narrow staircase, he mounted to the second floor and came out into a gallery that ran round the whole second storey over the yard. While he was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where to turn for Kapernaumov’s door, a door opened three paces from him; he mechanically took hold of it.
“Who is there?” a woman’s voice asked uneasily.
“It’s I . . . come to see you,” answered Raskolnikov and he walked into the tiny entry.
On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper candlestick.
“It’s you! Good heavens!” cried Sonia weakly, and she stood rooted to the spot.
“Which is your room? This way?” and Raskolnikov, trying not to look at her, hastened in.
A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, set down the candlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood before him inexpressibly agitated and apparently frightened by his unexpected visit. The colour rushed suddenly to her pale face and tears came into her eyes . . . She felt sick and ashamed and happy, too. . . . Raskolnikov turned away quickly and sat on a chair by the table. He scanned the