“Lord rest her soul!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I will pray to God for her eternally, eternally! Where would we be now, Dunya, without those three thousand roubles! Lord, just as though they fell from heaven! Ah, Rodya, this morning we had all of three roubles to our name, and were thinking, Dunya and I, of quickly pawning the watch somewhere, if only so as not to take anything from that man until he thought of it himself.”
Dunya was somehow all too struck by Svidrigailov's offer. She was still standing deep in thought.
“He's contemplating something horrible!” she said to herself, almost in a whisper, all but shuddering.
Raskolnikov noticed this excessive fear.
“It seems I'll have to see him more than once,” he said to Dunya.
“We'll keep an eye on him! I'll stay on his trail!” Razumikhin cried energetically. “I won't let him out of my sight! Rodya gave me his permission. He told me himself today: 'Protect my sister.' And do I have your permission, Avdotya Romanovna?”
Dunya smiled and gave him her hand, but the worry would not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna kept glancing at her timidly; however, the three thousand had obviously set her at ease.
A quarter of an hour later they were all in a most animated conversation. Even Raskolnikov, though he did not speak, listened attentively for some time. Razumikhin was holding forth.
“But why, why would you leave!” he overflowed rapturously in his ecstatic speech. “What are you going to do in a wretched little town? The main thing is that you're all together here, and you need one another—oh, you do need one another, believe me! Well, at least for the time being...Take me as a friend, a partner, and I assure you we can start an excellent enterprise. Listen, I'll explain it all to you in detail—the whole project! This morning, when nothing had happened yet, it was already flashing in my head...The point is this: I have an uncle (I'll introduce him to you; a most agreeable, most respectable old codger!), and this uncle has a capital of a thousand roubles; he himself lives on his pension and wants for nothing. For two years now he's been pestering me to take the thousand from him and pay him six percent on it. I see what he's up to: he simply wants to help me out. Last year I didn't need it, but this year I was just waiting for him to come and decided I'd take it. Then you can give another thousand out of your three; that way we'll have enough to start with, and so we'll join together. And what is it we're going to do?”
Here Razumikhin began developing his project, and spoke at length about how almost all our booksellers and publishers have little feeling for their wares, and are therefore also bad publishers, whereas decent publications generally pay for themselves and bring in a profit, sometimes a considerable one. And so Razumikhin's dream was to go into publishing, since he had already spent two years working for others, and knew three European languages quite well, though he had told Raskolnikov six days ago that his German was “kaput,“ with the aim of convincing him to take half of his translation work and three roubles of the advance; not only was he lying then, but Raskolnikov had known that he was lying.
“Why, why should we let the chance slip, when we happen to have one of the main essentials—our own money?” Razumikhin was becoming excited. “Of course, it means a lot of work, but we will work—you, Avdotya Romanovna, and I, and Rodion...some books bring in a nice profit nowadays! And the main basis of the enterprise will be that we'll know precisely what to translate. We'll translate, and publish, and study, all at the same time. I can be useful here, because I've got experience. I've been poking around among publishers for nearly two years now; I know all the ins and outs—and there's no need for the divine spark, believe me! Why, why should we let the spoon miss our mouth? I myself know—I've been keeping it a secret—of two or three works that would bring a hundred roubles each just for the idea of translating and publishing them; as for one of them, I wouldn't sell the idea even for five hundred roubles. And you know, if I were to tell someone, he might just doubt it—blockheads that they are! As for the business end proper—typographers, paper, sales—you can leave that to me! I know all the ropes! We'll start little by little and wind up with something big; at least we'll have enough to eat, and in any case we'll get back what we put in.”
Dunya's eyes were shining.
“I like what you're saying very much, Dmitri Prokofych,” she said.
“I know nothing about it, of course,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna responded, “it may be good, but then again, God knows. It's so new somehow, so unknown. Of course, it's necessary for us to stay here, at least for the time being.”
She looked at Rodya.
“What do you think, brother?” Dunya said.
“I think his idea is a very good one,” he answered. “Naturally, you shouldn't dream ahead of time of establishing a firm, but it is indeed possible to publish five or six books with unquestionable success. I myself know of one work that would be sure to do well. And as for his ability to handle the business, there's no doubt of it: he understands business...However, you have time enough to come to an agreement...”
“Hurrah!” cried Razumikhin. “Now wait, there's an apartment here, in this same building, with the same landlord. It's a private, separate one, not connected with the rooming house, and it's furnished—the price is moderate, three small rooms. So you take that to start with. I'll pawn your watch tomorrow and bring you the money, and later everything will be settled. And the main thing is that you can all three live together, and Rodya with you...Where are you off to, Rodya?”
“What, Rodya, you're leaving already?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked, even in alarm.
“At such a moment!” exclaimed Razumikhin.
Dunya looked at her brother with incredulous surprise. He had his cap in his hand; he was getting ready to go.
“It's not as if you were burying me or saying good-bye forever,” he said, somehow strangely.
It was as if he smiled, but at the same time as if it were not a smile.
“Though, who knows, maybe this is the last time we'll see each other,” he added inadvertently.
He was thinking it to himself, but somehow it got spoken aloud.
“What's the matter with you!” his mother cried out.
“Where are you going, Rodya?” Dunya asked, somehow strangely.
“No, I really must,” he answered vaguely, as if hesitating over what he wanted to say. But there was a sort of sharp determination in his pale face.
“I wanted to tell you...as I was coming here...I wanted to tell you, mama...and you, Dunya, that it's better if we part ways for a while. I'm not feeling well, I'm not at ease...I'll come myself afterwards...when I can. I think of you and love you...Leave me! Leave me alone! I decided on it even before...I decided on it for certain...Whatever happens to me, whether I perish or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether. It's better...Don't make inquiries about me. When need be, I'll come myself, or... send for you. Perhaps everything will rise again! ... But for now, if you love me, give in...Otherwise I'll start hating you, I feel it...Good-bye!”
“Lord!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
Mother and sister were both terribly frightened; so was Razumikhin.
“Rodya, Rodya! Make peace with us, let's be as we used to be!” his poor mother exclaimed.
He slowly turned towards the door, and slowly began walking out of the room. Dunya overtook him.
“Brother! What are you doing to mother!” she whispered, her eyes burning with indignation.
He gave her a heavy look.
“It's all right, I'll be back, I'll still come!” he muttered half aloud, as if not quite aware of what he wanted to say, and walked out of the room.
“Wicked, unfeeling egoist!” Dunya cried out.
“He's not unfeeling, he's cra-a-azy! He's mad! Don't you see that? If not, you're unfeeling yourself! . . .” Razumikhin whispered hotly, just over her shoulder, squeezing her hand hard.
“I'll be back right away!” he cried, turning to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who had gone numb, and he ran out of the room.
Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the corridor.
“I knew you'd come running,” he said. “Go back to them and be with them...Be with them tomorrow, too...and always. I'll come...maybe...if I can. Good-bye!”
And without offering his hand, he began walking away.