Crime and Punishment (29 page)

‘You didn't promise her anything, did you? Or sign something? Maybe you promised to marry her . . .'

‘Nothing of the kind! Absolutely not! Anyway, she's not that type at all. Chebarov had a go . . .'

‘So just drop her, then!'

‘I can't just drop her!'

‘Why on earth not?'

‘Well, I can't, simple as that! Call it magnetism.'

‘So why've you been leading her on?'

‘I haven't led her on in the slightest. Maybe I'm the one being led on, in my stupidity, but it won't make a blind bit of difference to her whether it's you or me, just so long as there's someone sitting beside her and sighing. What we have here, brother . . . I just can't put it into words . . . I know you're good at maths and you still keep your hand in . . . Well, start by teaching her integral calculus. I'm not joking, dammit, I'm perfectly serious – it won't make a blind bit of difference to her: she'll look at you and she'll sigh and a year will pass before you know it. You should have heard me telling her about the Prussian House of Lords
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for two days running (what else should I talk to her
about?) – she just sighed and perspired! Just don't touch the subject of love (she's hysterically bashful about that) and make it look like you'll never leave – and that'll do. It's terribly cosy, just like home – you can read, sit, lounge about, write . . . You can even steal a kiss, if you're careful . . .'

‘But what good is she to me?'

‘If only I could make you understand! Can't you see? You're ideally suited to one another! This isn't the first time I've thought of it . . . After all, this is where you'll end up! So what does it matter whether it's now or later? Think of it, brother, as the bed-of-feathers principle – ha! And not just feathers! It's a magnetic force, the end of the world, an anchor, a quiet haven, the earth's navel, the three fish on which the world still stands, the essence of pancakes, greasy coulibiac pies, the evening samovar, soft sighs and warm knitted jackets, heated benches by the stove – as if you've died, but you're still alive: the best of both worlds! Well, brother, enough of my fibs and nonsense, it's time for bed! You know, I sometimes wake up at night and go and take a look at him. But never mind that, everything's fine. So don't you worry, either, but if you feel like it, you take a look too. And if you notice anything at all – delirium for instance, or a temperature, or whatever – wake me up at once. Though I can't see it happening . . .'

It was a worried, serious Razumikhin who woke some time before eight the next morning. He found himself suddenly plagued by a multitude of new and unexpected uncertainties. Never before had he imagined waking in such a state. He remembered yesterday's events down to the very last detail and realized that something out of the ordinary had happened to him, that he had absorbed an impression the like of which he had never known or knew existed. At the same time he was all too aware that the dream that had taken fire in his mind was utterly unrealistic – so unrealistic he even felt ashamed of it and hurriedly turned his attention to the other, more pressing concerns and uncertainties bestowed on him by the previous day, ‘may it be forever cursed'.

Most appalling of all was the memory of how ‘loathsome and vile' he'd proved himself to be, not just because he'd been drunk but because, jealous fool that he was, he'd rushed to abuse the girl's fiancé to
her face, taking advantage of her plight while knowing little not only of their mutual relations and obligations, but even about the man himself. And anyway, what right did he have to judge him so hastily and recklessly? Who'd asked him to act as judge and jury? And could such a creature as Avdotya Romanovna really give herself to an unworthy man for money? So he, too, must have his virtues. Those rooms? How could he have known what they were like? He was preparing an apartment for them, after all . . . ugh, how loathsome! And being drunk was no justification! A stupid excuse that only degraded him all the more! There's truth in wine, and now that truth had all spilled out, i.e., ‘all the filth of my coarse and jealous heart'! And how could he, Razumikhin, have even permitted himself such a dream? Who was he next to a girl like that – he, a rowdy drunk, yesterday's show-off? ‘Even mentioning us in the same breath is laughable, outrageous!' Thinking this, Razumikhin turned a desperate shade of red, when suddenly, right on cue, at that very same second, yesterday's words on the stairs came back to him loud and clear: that stuff about the landlady being jealous of Avdotya Romanovna . . . This really was the final straw. He struck his fist with full force against the kitchen stove, injuring his hand and dislodging a brick.

‘Of course,' he muttered to himself a minute later, filled with a kind of self-abasement, ‘nothing will ever be able to paper over so much filth . . . which means there's no use even thinking about it, and I should present myself in silence, and . . . discharge my duties . . . in silence and . . . and not beg for forgiveness, and not say a word and . . . and, of course, all is now lost!'

And yet, getting dressed, he inspected his attire more thoroughly than usual. He had no other clothes, and even if he had, he might not have worn them – ‘just because'. Be that as it may, he couldn't carry on being so outrageous, so slovenly: he'd no right to offend other people's feelings, especially when those same people needed him and were themselves inviting him round. He gave his clothes a thorough clean with a brush. His linen was always presentable: he was very particular on that score.

His ablutions that morning were vigorous – he got some soap from Nastasya and washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to deciding whether or not to shave (Praskovya Pavlovna had some first-rate razors left over after the death of her late husband, Mr Zarnitsyn), the question was answered fiercely in the
negative: ‘I'll go as I am! What if they thought I'd shaved for . . . ? They'd be bound to think that! Not on my life!

‘And . . . and the main thing is I'm so coarse, so filthy, with manners fit for the tavern; and . . . and so what if I know that I'm actually half-decent, despite all this . . . well, is that anything to be so proud of? Every man should be decent. It's the least you can expect and . . . but still, I've not forgotten that I have the odd skeleton in my closet, too . . . Nothing too disgraceful, but still! . . . And as for some of the ideas I've had! H'm . . . and to set all this alongside Avdotya Romanovna! That's a good one! Well, so what? Now I'll go out of my way to be filthy, lewd, a man of the tavern! Now more than ever!'

He was interrupted in full flow by Zosimov, who'd spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna's drawing room.

Zosimov was hurrying home and wanted to look in on the patient on his way out. Razumikhin informed him that he was sleeping like a log. Zosimov gave instructions not to wake him. He promised to call round after ten.

‘That's assuming he's home,' he added. ‘A devil of a business! Try being a doctor when you can't tell your patient what to do! Perhaps you can tell me: will
he
go over to them or will
they
come over to him?'

‘The second, I think,' answered Razumikhin, grasping the purpose of the question, ‘and they'll be talking about family matters, of course. I'll make myself scarce. Naturally, you have more right to be there than me, being a doctor.'

‘I'm hardly his confessor, either. I'll arrive and I'll be gone. I've plenty else to be getting on with.'

‘There's one thing bothering me,' interrupted Razumikhin, frowning. ‘Yesterday, when I was drunk, I blurted out some stupid things to him on the way home . . . about this and that . . . including your fear that he might be . . . prone to insanity . . .'

‘You blurted that out to the ladies, too, yesterday.'

‘I know – completely idiotic! Don't mind if you punch me for it! But were you serious about that?'

‘Serious? Please! You described him yourself as a monomaniac when you brought me to see him . . . And then yesterday we added more fuel to the flames, or rather you did, with those stories . . . about that painter. A fine topic of conversation when that might have been just the thing that drove him out of his mind! If I'd known the details of what happened in the bureau that time, if I'd known what that
suspicious rascal had said to offend him . . . H'm . . . Then I'd never have allowed such a conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs make mountains out of molehills; in their minds, the wildest inventions take on flesh and blood . . . From what I can remember of Za-metov's story yesterday, at least half of this business has now become clear to me. And so what? I know a case of one hypochondriac, forty years old, who couldn't put up with being mocked every day, over dinner, by an eight-year-old boy, and killed him! And what do we have here? A man in rags, an insolent lieutenant, incipient sickness, and a suspicion like that! Addressed to a crazed hypochondriac!
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Who happens to be madly, exceptionally vain! Perhaps this is where it all began – the sickness, I mean! Too bloody right! . . . That Zametov, by the way, really is a sweet little boy, only, h'm . . . shame he went and said all that yesterday. He can never keep his mouth shut!'

‘But who did he tell? Me, you, and?'

‘Porfiry.'

‘So he told Porfiry. So what?'

‘By the way, do you have any influence with them, the mother and sister? We'd better be careful with him today . . .'

‘They'll get over it!' Razumikhin reluctantly replied.

‘And what's he got against this Luzhin? He's a man of means and she doesn't seem to mind him . . . and they haven't a copeck between them, eh?'

‘Why all these questions?' shouted Razumikhin irritably. ‘How should I know how many copecks they have? Ask them and maybe they'll tell you . . .'

‘Ugh, what an idiot you are sometimes! That's the drink still talking . . . Goodbye then; and thank Praskovya Pavlovna on my behalf for the bed. She's locked herself in and didn't respond to my
Bonjour
, though she got up at seven and had the samovar brought in to her straight from the kitchen . . . I wasn't granted the honour of beholding her.'

Razumikhin arrived at Bakaleyev's house at nine o'clock sharp. The two ladies had been waiting for him for a good long time in a state of hysterical impatience. They'd been up since seven, if not earlier. He walked in, dark as the night, and bowed awkwardly, which immediately made him angry – with himself, needless to say. His fears were ill-founded: Pulkheria Alexandrovna fairly threw herself at him, seized him by both hands and all but kissed them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but at that moment even this haughty face
expressed so much gratitude and friendship, such total and unexpected respect (no mocking glances, no involuntary, ill-concealed contempt!) that he would have found it easier, in all seriousness, to have been greeted with abuse – for this was all far too embarrassing. Luckily, a topic of conversation lay ready and waiting, and he grasped it eagerly.

Hearing that Raskolnikov hadn't woken up yet, though everything was ‘absolutely fine', Pulkheria Alexandrovna announced that this was a good thing, too, because she ‘desperately, desperately' needed to talk everything over in advance. Razumikhin was invited to take tea with them, as they'd been waiting for him before having theirs. Avdotya Romanovna rang, a filthy ragamuffin appeared, and tea was ordered and eventually served, but in so filthy and disgraceful a manner that the ladies felt positively ashamed. Razumikhin was on the verge of laying into Bakaleyev's rooms but, remembering about Luzhin, fell into an embarrassed silence and was terribly relieved when at last Pulkheria Alexandrovna's questions began flowing thick and fast.

Responding to them, he spoke for three quarters of an hour, through continual interruption and interrogation, and managed to impart all the most crucial and essential facts known to him from the last year of Rodion Romanovich's life, concluding with a detailed account of his illness. All the same, he left out whatever needed to be left out, including the scene in the police bureau, with all its consequences. His listeners hung on his every word; but just when he thought he'd reached the end and satisfied their demands, it turned out that for them he had barely begun.

‘Now tell me, tell me, what is your opinion . . . ? Oh, forgive me, I still don't know your name,' rushed Pulkheria Alexandrovna.

‘Dmitry Prokofich.'

‘Well then, Dmitry Prokofich, I am desperately, desperately keen to learn about how he . . . in general . . . sees things now. I mean – how should I put it, put it best? – I mean, well, what does he like and what doesn't he like? Is he always so very irritable? What does he wish for, as it were, and, as it were, dream about? What influences is he subject to right now? In a word, I would like . . .'

‘Oh, Mama, how could anyone reply to all that in one go?' remarked Dunya.

‘But heavens, I could never, ever have expected to find him like this, Dmitry Prokofich.'

‘That's very understandable, ma'am,' replied Dmitry Prokofich. ‘My mother's dead, but my uncle comes here once a year and he nearly always fails to recognize me, even physically, though he's clever enough; so just think how much must have changed in the three years that you've been apart. What can I say? I've known Rodion for a year and a half: he's sullen, gloomy, haughty, proud; recently (and perhaps much earlier, too) he's paranoid and hypochondriac. Generous and kind. Doesn't like to express his feelings and would sooner do something cruel than say what's in his heart. Sometimes, though, he's not hypochondriac at all, just cold and unfeeling to an almost inhuman degree, as if two contrasting characters were taking turns inside him. And he can be terribly untalkative! Never has time for anyone, finds everyone a nuisance, yet lounges around doing nothing. Not given to mockery, but not through lack of wit – rather, it's as if his time is too precious to waste on such trifles. Never listens to the end. Never interested in what everyone else is interested in. Terribly conceited and not, perhaps, without cause. What else? . . . If you ask me, your arrival will have a very salutary effect on him.'

‘Pray God!' cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna, worried to death by Razumikhin's report about her Rodya.

Now, at long last, Razumikhin looked up at Avdotya Romanovna with a touch more confidence. He'd glanced at her often in the course of the conversation, but fleetingly, for a mere instant, before immediately looking away. One moment Avdotya Romanovna would sit down at the table and listen closely, the next she would get up again and start pacing the room, as was her habit, from one corner to the other, folding her arms, pressing her lips together and occasionally posing a question of her own, while still walking, deep in thought. She, too, had the habit of not listening to the end. She was wearing a darkish dress of thin material, with a white transparent scarf tied around her neck. It was impossible for Razumikhin not to notice at once the desperate poverty in which both women lived. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he would not, it seems, have been remotely afraid of her; but now, precisely because her clothes were so poor, perhaps, and because he could no longer ignore the meanness of her surroundings, terror took root in his heart and he began to fear his every word, his every gesture, and this, of course, was rather inhibiting for a man already lacking in confidence.

‘You've said many interesting things about my brother's character
and . . . you've spoken without prejudice. That's good. I thought that perhaps you revered him,' Avdotya Romanovna observed with a smile. ‘It's also true, it seems, that he needs a woman at his side,' she added pensively.

‘I didn't say that, though you may be right there too, only . . .'

‘Only what?'

‘Well, he doesn't love anyone, and perhaps he never will,' Razumikhin snapped.

‘He's not capable of loving, you mean?'

‘You know, Avdotya Romanovna, you're just like your brother, in every possible way!' he suddenly blurted out, surprising even himself, then immediately recalled everything he'd just told her about her brother and turned red as a lobster in his embarrassment. Avdotya Romanovna couldn't help laughing aloud at the sight of him.