without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a
hundred and fourteen. And a fine thing, too, in its way;
but we can’t even make mistakes on our own account!
Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and I’ll kiss
you for it. To go wrong in one’s own way is better than
to go right in someone else’s. In the first case you are a
man, in the second you’re no better than a bird. Truth
won’t escape you, but life can be cramped. There have
been examples. And what are we doing now? In science,
development, thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism,
judgment, experience and everything, everything,
everything, we are still in the preparatory class at school.
We prefer to live on other people’s ideas, it’s what we are
used to! Am I right, am I right?’ cried Razumihin, pressing
and shaking the two ladies’ hands.
‘Oh, mercy, I do not know,’ cried poor Pulcheria
Alexandrovna.
‘Yes, yes … though I don’t agree with you in
everything,’ added Avdotya Romanovna earnestly and at
once uttered a cry, for he squeezed her hand so painfully.
‘Yes, you say yes … well after that you … you …’ he
cried in a transport, ‘you are a fount of goodness, purity,
sense … and perfection. Give me your hand … you give
me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands here at once, on
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my knees …’ and he fell on his knees on the pavement,
fortunately at that time deserted.
‘Leave off, I entreat you, what are you doing?’
Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, greatly distressed.
‘Get up, get up!’ said Dounia laughing, though she,
too, was upset.
‘Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That’s
it! Enough! I get up and we’ll go on! I am a luckless fool, I
am unworthy of you and drunk … and I am ashamed…. I
am not worthy to love you, but to do homage to you is
the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And I’ve
done homage…. Here are your lodgings, and for that
alone Rodya was right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch
away…. How dare he! how dare he put you in such
lodgings! It’s a scandal! Do you know the sort of people
they take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his
betrothed? Yes? Well, then, I’ll tell you, your fiancé is a
scoundrel.’
‘Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting …’
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning.
‘Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am
ashamed of it,’ Razumihin made haste to apologise. ‘But
… but you can’t be angry with me for speaking so! For I
speak sincerely and not because … hm, hm! That would
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be disgraceful; in fact not because I’m in … hm! Well,
anyway, I won’t say why, I daren’t…. But we all saw today
when he came in that that man is not of our sort. Not
because he had his hair curled at the barber’s, not because
he was in such a hurry to show his wit, but because he is a
spy, a speculator, because he is a skin-flint and a buffoon.
That’s evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a fool,
a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you
see, ladies?’ he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs to
their rooms, ‘though all my friends there are drunk, yet
they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash,
and I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last,
for we are on the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch … is
not on the right path. Though I’ve been calling them all
sorts of names just now, I do respect them all … though I
don’t respect Zametov, I like him, for he is a puppy, and
that bullock Zossimov, because he is an honest man and
knows his work. But enough, it’s all said and forgiven. Is it
forgiven? Well, then, let’s go on. I know this corridor,
I’ve been here, there was a scandal here at Number 3….
Where are you here? Which number? eight? Well, lock
yourselves in for the night, then. Don’t let anybody in. In
a quarter of an hour I’ll come back with news, and half an
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hour later I’ll bring Zossimov, you’ll see! Good- bye, I’ll
run.’
‘Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?’ said
Pulcheria Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with
anxiety and dismay.
‘Don’t worry yourself, mother,’ said Dounia, taking off
her hat and cape. ‘God has sent this gentleman to our aid,
though he has come from a drinking party. We can
depend on him, I assure you. And all that he has done for
Rodya….’
‘Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come!
How could I bring myself to leave Rodya? … And how
different, how different I had fancied our meeting! How
sullen he was, as though not pleased to see us….’
Tears came into her eyes.
‘No, it’s not that, mother. You didn’t see, you were
crying all the time. He is quite unhinged by serious
illness—that’s the reason.’
‘Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen?
And how he talked to you, Dounia!’ said the
mother, looking timidly at her daughter, trying to read her
thoughts and, already half consoled by Dounia’s standing
up for her brother, which meant that she had already
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forgiven him. ‘I am sure he will think better of it tomorrow,’
she added, probing her further.
‘And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow …
about that,’ Avdotya Romanovna said finally. And, of
course, there was no going beyond that, for this was a
point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss.
Dounia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly
embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to
wait anxiously for Razumihin’s return, timidly watching
her daughter who walked up and down the room with her
arms folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down
when she was thinking was a habit of Avdotya
Romanovna’s and the mother was always afraid to break
in on her daughter’s mood at such moments.
Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden
drunken infatuation for Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart
from his eccentric condition, many people would have
thought it justified if they had seen Avdotya Romanovna,
especially at that moment when she was walking to and
fro with folded arms, pensive and melancholy. Avdotya
Romanovna was remarkably good looking; she was tall,
strikingly well-proportioned, strong and self-reliant—the
latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did
not in the least detract from the grace and softness of her
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movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she
might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark
brown, a little lighter than her brother’s; there was a proud
light in her almost black eyes and yet at times a look of
extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy
pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and vigour. Her
mouth was rather small; the full red lower lip projected a
little as did her chin; it was the only irregularity in her
beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and
almost haughty expression. Her face was always more
serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles, how
well youthful, lighthearted, irresponsible, laughter suited
her face! It was natural enough that a warm, open, simplehearted,
honest giant like Razumihin, who had never seen
anyone like her and was not quite sober at the time,
should lose his head immediately. Besides, as chance
would have it, he saw Dounia for the first time
transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at
meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with
indignation at her brother’s insolent, cruel and ungrateful
words—and his fate was sealed.
He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted
out in his drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovya
Pavlovna, Raskolnikov’s eccentric landlady, would be
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jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotya
Romanovna on his account. Although Pulcheria
Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face still retained traces
of her former beauty; she looked much younger than her
age, indeed, which is almost always the case with women
who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere
warmth of heart to old age. We may add in parenthesis
that to preserve all this is the only means of retaining
beauty to old age. Her hair had begun to grow grey and
thin, there had long been little crow’s foot wrinkles round
her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety
and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia
over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting
underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not
sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain
point. She could give way and accept a great deal even of
what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a
certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest
convictions which nothing would induce her to cross.
Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin’s departure,
there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door:
he had come back.
‘I won’t come in, I haven’t time,’ he hastened to say
when the door was opened. ‘He sleeps like a top, soundly,
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quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasya’s
with him; I told her not to leave till I came. Now I am
fetching Zossimov, he will report to you and then you’d
better turn in; I can see you are too tired to do
anything….’
And he ran off down the corridor.
‘What a very competent and … devoted young man!’
cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted.
‘He seems a splendid person!’ Avdotya Romanovna
replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and
down the room.
It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in
the corridor and another knock at the door. Both women
waited this time completely relying on Razumihin’s
promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov.
Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party
to go to Raskolnikov’s, but he came reluctantly and with
the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting
Razumihin in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity was
at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were
really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten
minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and
comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with
marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme
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seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation.
He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not
display the slightest desire to enter into more personal
relations with the two ladies. Remarking at his first
entrance the dazzling beauty of Avdotya Romanovna, he
endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and
addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All
this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He
declared that he thought the invalid at this moment going
on very satisfactorily. According to his observations the
patient’s illness was due partly to his unfortunate material
surroundings during the last few months, but it had partly
also a moral origin, ‘was, so to speak, the product of
several material and moral influences, anxieties,
apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas … and so on.’
Noticing stealthily that Avdotya Romanovna was
following his words with close attention, Zossimov
allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. On Pulcheria
Alexandrovna’s anxiously and timidly inquiring as to
‘some suspicion of insanity,’ he replied with a composed
and candid smile that his words had been exaggerated; that
certainly the patient had some fixed idea, something
approaching a monomania—he, Zossimov, was now
particularly studying this interesting branch of medicine—
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but that it must be recollected that until to-day the patient
had been in delirium and … and that no doubt the
presence of his family would have a favourable effect on
his recovery and distract his mind, ‘if only all fresh shocks
can be avoided,’ he added significantly. Then he got up,
took leave with an impressive and affable bow, while
blessings, warm gratitude, and entreaties were showered
upon him, and Avdotya Romanovna spontaneously
offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased
with his visit and still more so with himself.
‘We’ll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!’ Razumihin
said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. ‘I’ll be with
you to-morrow morning as early as possible with my
report.’
‘That’s a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna,’
remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both
came out into the street.
‘Fetching? You said fetching?’ roared Razumihin and
he flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. ‘If you
ever dare…. Do you understand? Do you understand?’ he
shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him
against the wall. ‘Do you hear?’
‘Let me go, you drunken devil,’ said Zossimov,
struggling and when he had let him go, he stared at him
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and went off into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin stood
facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection.
‘Of course, I am an ass,’ he observed, sombre as a storm
cloud, ‘but still … you are another.’
‘No, brother, not at all such another. I am not
dreaming of any folly.’
They walked along in silence and only when they were
close to Raskolnikov’s lodgings, Razumihin broke the
silence in considerable anxiety.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you’re a first-rate fellow, but among
your other failings, you’re a loose fish, that I know, and a
dirty one, too. You are a feeble, nervous wretch, and a
mass of whims, you’re getting fat and lazy and can’t deny
yourself anything—and I call that dirty because it leads one
straight into the dirt. You’ve let yourself get so slack that I
don’t know how it is you are still a good, even a devoted
doctor. You—a doctor—sleep on a feather bed and get up
at night to your patients! In another three or four years
you won’t get up for your patients … But hang it all,
that’s not the point! … You are going to spend to-night in
the landlady’s flat here. (Hard work I’ve had to persuade
her!) And I’ll be in the kitchen. So here’s a chance for you
to get to know her better…. It’s not as you think! There’s
not a trace of anything of the sort, brother …!’
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‘But I don’t think!’
‘Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a
savage virtue … and yet she’s sighing and melting like
wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that’s
unholy! She’s most prepossessing … I’ll repay you, I’ll do
anything….’
Zossimov laughed more violently than ever.
‘Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?’
‘It won’t be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot
you like to her, as long as you sit by her and talk. You’re a
doctor, too; try curing her of something. I swear you
won’t regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I strum a
little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: ‘I shed
hot tears.’ She likes the genuine article—and well, it all
began with that song; Now you’re a regular performer, a
maître a Rubinstein…. I assure you, you won’t regret it!’
‘But have you made her some promise? Something
signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?’
‘Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind!
Besides she is not that sort at all…. Tchebarov tried
that….’
‘Well then, drop her!’
‘But I can’t drop her like that!’
‘Why can’t you?’
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‘Well, I can’t, that’s all about it! There’s an element of
attraction here, brother.’
‘Then why have you fascinated her?’
‘I haven’t fascinated her; perhaps I was fascinated myself
in my folly. But she won’t care a straw whether it’s you or
I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing…. I can’t
explain the position, brother … look here, you are good at
mathematics, and working at it now … begin teaching her
the integral calculus; upon my soul, I’m not joking, I’m in
earnest, it’ll be just the same to her. She will gaze at you
and sigh for a whole year together. I talked to her once for
two days at a time about the Prussian House of Lords (for
one must talk of something)—she just sighed and
perspired! And you mustn’t talk of love—she’s bashful to
hysterics—but just let her see you can’t tear yourself
away—that’s enough. It’s fearfully comfortable; you’re
quite at home, you can read, sit, lie about, write. You may
even venture on a kiss, if you’re careful.’
‘But what do I want with her?’
‘Ach, I can’t make you understand! You see, you are
made for each other! I have often been reminded of you!
… You’ll come to it in the end! So does it matter whether
it’s sooner or later? There’s the feather-bed element here,
brother—ach! and not only that! There’s an attraction
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here—here you have the end of the world, an anchorage,
a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three fishes that
are the foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes,
of savoury fish- pies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs
and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on—as snug as
though you were dead, and yet you’re alive—the
advantages of both at once! Well, hang it, brother, what
stuff I’m talking, it’s bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake up
at night; so I’ll go in and look at him. But there’s no need,
it’s all right. Don’t you worry yourself, yet if you like, you
might just look in once, too. But if you notice anything—
delirium or fever—wake me at once. But there can’t
be….’
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Chapter II
Razumihin waked up next morning at eight o’clock,
troubled and serious. He found himself confronted with
many new and unlooked-for perplexities. He had never
expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He
remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew
that a perfectly novel experience had befallen him, that he
had received an impression unlike anything he had known
before. At the same time he recognised clearly that the
dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly
unattainable—so unattainable that he felt positively
ashamed of it, and he hastened to pass to the other more
practical cares and difficulties bequeathed him by that
‘thrice accursed yesterday.’
The most awful recollection of the previous day was
the way he had shown himself ‘base and mean,’ not only
because he had been drunk, but because he had taken
advantage of the young girl’s position to abuse her fiancé in
his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual
relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man
himself. And what right had he to criticise him in that
hasty and unguarded manner? Who had asked for his
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opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as Avdotya
Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for
money? So there must be something in him. The
lodgings? But after all how could he know the character of
the lodgings? He was furnishing a flat … Foo! how
despicable it all was! And what justification was it that he
was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even more
degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come
out, ‘that is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious
heart’! And would such a dream ever be permissible to
him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl—he, the
drunken noisy braggart of last night? Was it possible to
imagine so absurd and cynical a juxtaposition? Razumihin
blushed desperately at the very idea and suddenly the
recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had
said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be
jealous of Avdotya Romanovna … that was simply
intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the
kitchen stove, hurt his hand and sent one of the bricks
flying.
‘Of course,’ he muttered to himself a minute later with
a feeling of self-abasement, ‘of course, all these infamies
can never be wiped out or smoothed over … and so it’s
useless even to think of it, and I must go to them in
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silence and do my duty … in silence, too … and not ask
forgiveness, and say nothing … for all is lost now!’
And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more
carefully than usual. He hadn’t another suit—if he had
had, perhaps he wouldn’t have put it on. ‘I would have
made a point of not putting it on.’ But in any case he
could not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven; he had no
right to offend the feelings of others, especially when they
were in need of his assistance and asking him to see them.
He brushed his clothes carefully. His linen was always
decent; in that respect he was especially clean.
He washed that morning scrupulously—he got some
soap from Nastasya— he washed his hair, his neck and
especially his hands. When it came to the question
whether to shave his stubbly chin or not (Praskovya
Pavlovna had capital razors that had been left by her late
husband), the question was angrily answered in the
negative. ‘Let it stay as it is! What if they think that I
shaved on purpose to …? They certainly would think so!
Not on any account!’
‘And … the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty,
he had the manners of a pothouse; and … and even
admitting that he knew he had some of the essentials of a
gentleman … what was there in that to be proud of?
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Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that …
and all the same (he remembered) he, too, had done little
things … not exactly dishonest, and yet…. And what
thoughts he sometimes had; hm … and to set all that
beside Avdotya Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well,
he’d make a point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in
his manners and he wouldn’t care! He’d be worse!’
He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov,
who had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna’s parlour,
came in.
He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the
invalid first. Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov
was sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders that
they shouldn’t wake him and promised to see him again
about eleven.
‘If he is still at home,’ he added. ‘Damn it all! If one
can’t control one’s patients, how is one to cure them? Do
you know whether he will go to them, or whether they are
coming here?’
‘They are coming, I think,’ said Razumihin,
understanding the object of the question, ‘and they will
discuss their family affairs, no doubt. I’ll be off. You, as the
doctor, have more right to be here than I.’
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‘But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go
away; I’ve plenty to do besides looking after them.’
‘One thing worries me,’ interposed Razumihin,
frowning. ‘On the way home I talked a lot of drunken
nonsense to him … all sorts of things … and amongst
them that you were afraid that he … might become
insane.’
‘You told the ladies so, too.’
‘I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like!
Did you think so seriously?’
‘That’s nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it
seriously? You, yourself, described him as a monomaniac
when you fetched me to him … and we added fuel to the
fire yesterday, you did, that is, with your story about the
painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was, perhaps,
mad on that very point! If only I’d known what happened
then at the police station and that some wretch … had
insulted him with this suspicion! Hm … I would not have
allowed that conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs
will make a mountain out of a mole-hill … and see their
fancies as solid realities…. As far as I remember, it was
Zametov’s story that cleared up half the mystery, to my
mind. Why, I know one case in which a hypochondriac, a
man of forty, cut the throat of a little boy of eight, because
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he couldn’t endure the jokes he made every day at table!
And in this case his rags, the insolent police officer, the
fever and this suspicion! All that working upon a man half
frantic with hypochondria, and with his morbid
exceptional vanity! That may well have been the startingpoint
of illness. Well, bother it all! … And, by the way,
that Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, but hm … he
shouldn’t have told all that last night. He is an awful
chatterbox!’
‘But whom did he tell it to? You and me?’
‘And Porfiry.’
‘What does that matter?’
‘And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his
mother and sister? Tell them to be more careful with him
to-day….’
‘They’ll get on all right!’ Razumihin answered
reluctantly.
‘Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with
money and she doesn’t seem to dislike him … and they
haven’t a farthing, I suppose? eh?’
‘But what business is it of yours?’ Razumihin cried
with annoyance. ‘How can I tell whether they’ve a
farthing? Ask them yourself and perhaps you’ll find out….’
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‘Foo! what an ass you are sometimes! Last night’s wine
has not gone off yet…. Good-bye; thank your Praskovya
Pavlovna from me for my night’s lodging. She locked
herself in, made no reply to my bonjour through the door;
she was up at seven o’clock, the samovar was taken into
her from the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal
interview….’
At nine o’clock precisely Razumihin reached the
lodgings at Bakaleyev’s house. Both ladies were waiting
for him with nervous impatience. They had risen at seven
o’clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as night,
bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself
for it. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria
Alexandrovna fairly rushed at him, seized him by both
hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced timidly at
Avdotya Romanovna, but her proud countenance wore at
that moment an expression of such gratitude and
friendliness, such complete and unlooked-for respect (in
place of the sneering looks and ill-disguised contempt he
had expected), that it threw him into greater confusion
than if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was
a subject for conversation, and he made haste to snatch at
it.
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Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya
had not yet waked, Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that
she was glad to hear it, because ‘she had something which
it was very, very necessary to talk over beforehand.’ Then
followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to
have it with them; they had waited to have it with him.
Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a
ragged dirty waiter, and they asked him to bring tea which
was served at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way
that the ladies were ashamed. Razumihin vigorously
attacked the lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped
in embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria
Alexandrovna’s questions, which showered in a continual
stream upon him.
He talked for three quarters of an hour, being
constantly interrupted by their questions, and succeeded in
describing to them all the most important facts he knew of
the last year of Raskolnikov’s life, concluding with a
circumstantial account of his illness. He omitted, however,
many things, which were better omitted, including the
scene at the police station with all its consequences. They
listened eagerly to his story, and, when he thought he had
finished and satisfied his listeners, he found that they
considered he had hardly begun.
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‘Tell me, tell me! What do you think … ? Excuse me, I
still don’t know your name!’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna put
in hastily.
‘Dmitri Prokofitch.’
‘I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri
Prokofitch … how he looks … on things in general now,
that is, how can I explain, what are his likes and dislikes? Is
he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can, what are his
hopes and, so to say, his dreams? Under what influences is
he now? In a word, I should like …’
‘Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?’
observed Dounia.
‘Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the
least like this, Dmitri Prokofitch!’
‘Naturally,’ answered Razumihin. ‘I have no mother,
but my uncle comes every year and almost every time he
can scarcely recognise me, even in appearance, though he
is a clever man; and your three years’ separation means a
great deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rodion
for a year and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud and
haughty, and of late—and perhaps for a long time
before—he has been suspicious and fanciful. He has a
noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing
his feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open
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his heart freely. Sometimes, though, he is not at all
morbid, but simply cold and inhumanly callous; it’s as
though he were alternating between two characters.
Sometimes he is fearfully reserved! He says he is so busy
that everything is a hindrance, and yet he lies in bed doing
nothing. He doesn’t jeer at things, not because he hasn’t
the wit, but as though he hadn’t time to waste on such
trifles. He never listens to what is said to him. He is never
interested in what interests other people at any given
moment. He thinks very highly of himself and perhaps he
is right. Well, what more? I think your arrival will have a
most beneficial influence upon him.’
‘God grant it may,’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna,
distressed by Razumihin’s account of her Rodya.
And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at
Avdotya Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often
while he was talking, but only for a moment and looked
away again at once. Avdotya Romanovna sat at the table,
listening attentively, then got up again and began walking
to and fro with her arms folded and her lips compressed,
occasionally putting in a question, without stopping her
walk. She had the same habit of not listening to what was
said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff and she had
a white transparent scarf round her neck. Razumihin soon
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detected signs of extreme poverty in their belongings. Had
Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he felt
that he would not be afraid of her, but perhaps just
because she was poorly dressed and that he noticed all the
misery of her surroundings, his heart was filled with dread
and he began to be afraid of every word he uttered, every
gesture he made, which was very trying for a man who
already felt diffident.
‘You’ve told us a great deal that is interesting about my
brother’s character … and have told it impartially. I am
glad. I thought that you were too uncritically devoted to
him,’ observed Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. ‘I think
you are right that he needs a woman’s care,’ she added
thoughtfully.
‘I didn’t say so; but I daresay you are right, only …’
‘What?’
‘He loves no one and perhaps he never will,’
Razumihin declared decisively.
‘You mean he is not capable of love?’
‘Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are awfully
like your brother, in everything, indeed!’ he blurted out
suddenly to his own surprise, but remembering at once
what he had just before said of her brother, he turned as
red as a crab and was overcome with confusion. Avdotya
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Romanovna couldn’t help laughing when she looked at
him.
‘You may both be mistaken about Rodya,’ Pulcheria
Alexandrovna remarked, slightly piqued. ‘I am not talking
of our present difficulty, Dounia. What Pyotr Petrovitch
writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed may
be mistaken, but you can’t imagine, Dmitri Prokofitch,
how moody and, so to say, capricious he is. I never could
depend on what he would do when he was only fifteen.
And I am sure that he might do something now that
nobody else would think of doing … Well, for instance,
do you know how a year and a half ago he astounded me
and gave me a shock that nearly killed me, when he had
the idea of marrying that girl—what was her name—his
landlady’s daughter?’
‘Did you hear about that affair?’ asked Avdotya
Romanovna.
‘Do you suppose——’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna
continued warmly. ‘Do you suppose that my tears, my
entreaties, my illness, my possible death from grief, our
poverty would have made him pause? No, he would
calmly have disregarded all obstacles. And yet it isn’t that
he doesn’t love us!’
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‘He has never spoken a word of that affair to me,’
Razumihin answered cautiously. ‘But I did hear
something from Praskovya Pavlovna herself, though she is
by no means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was
rather strange.’
‘And what did you hear?’ both the ladies asked at once.
‘Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the
marriage, which only failed to take place through the girl’s
death, was not at all to Praskovya Pavlovna’s liking. They
say, too, the girl was not at all pretty, in fact I am told
positively ugly … and such an invalid … and queer. But
she seems to have had some good qualities. She must have
had some good qualities or it’s quite inexplicable…. She
had no money either and he wouldn’t have considered her
money…. But it’s always difficult to judge in such
matters.’
‘I am sure she was a good girl,’ Avdotya Romanovna
observed briefly.
‘God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death.
Though I don’t know which of them would have caused
most misery to the other—he to her or she to him,’
Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began
tentatively questioning him about the scene on the
previous day with Luzhin, hesitating and continually
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glancing at Dounia, obviously to the latter’s annoyance.
This incident more than all the rest evidently caused her
uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin described it in
detail again, but this time he added his own conclusions:
he openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting
Pyotr Petrovitch, not seeking to excuse him on the score
of his illness.
‘He had planned it before his illness,’ he added.
‘I think so, too,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a
dejected air. But she was very much surprised at hearing
Razumihin express himself so carefully and even with a
certain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch. Avdotya
Romanovna, too, was struck by it.
‘So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovitch?’ Pulcheria
Alexandrovna could not resist asking.
‘I can have no other opinion of your daughter’s future
husband,’ Razumihin answered firmly and with warmth,
‘and I don’t say it simply from vulgar politeness, but
because … simply because Avdotya Romanovna has of
her own free will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke so
rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly
drunk and … mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head
completely … and this morning I am ashamed of it.’
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He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya
Romanovna flushed, but did not break the silence. She
had not uttered a word from the moment they began to
speak of Luzhin.
Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously
did not know what to do. At last, faltering and continually
glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was
exceedingly worried by one circumstance.
‘You see, Dmitri Prokofitch,’ she began. ‘I’ll be
perfectly open with Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?’
‘Of course, mother,’ said Avdotya Romanovna
emphatically.
‘This is what it is,’ she began in haste, as though the
permission to speak of her trouble lifted a weight off her
mind. ‘Very early this morning we got a note from Pyotr
Petrovitch in reply to our letter announcing our arrival.
He promised to meet us at the station, you know; instead
of that he sent a servant to bring us the address of these
lodgings and to show us the way; and he sent a message
that he would be here himself this morning. But this
morning this note came from him. You’d better read it
yourself; there is one point in it which worries me very
much … you will soon see what that is, and … tell me
your candid opinion, Dmitri Prokofitch! You know
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Rodya’s character better than anyone and no one can
advise us better than you can. Dounia, I must tell you,
made her decision at once, but I still don’t feel sure how
to act and I … I’ve been waiting for your opinion.’
Razumihin opened the note which was dated the
previous evening and read as follows:
"Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I
have the honour to inform you that owing
to unforeseen obstacles I was rendered
unable to meet you at the railway station; I
sent a very competent person with the
same object in view. I likewise shall be
deprived of the honour of an interview
with you to-morrow morning by business
in the Senate that does not admit of delay,
and also that I may not intrude on your
family circle while you are meeting your
son, and Avdotya Romanovna her brother.
I shall have the honour of visiting you and
paying you my respects at your lodgings
not later than to-morrow evening at eight
o’clock precisely, and herewith I venture to
present my earnest and, I may add,
imperative request that Rodion
Romanovitch may not be present at our
interview—as he offered me a gross and
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unprecedented affront on the occasion of
my visit to him in his illness yesterday, and,
moreover, since I desire from you
personally an indispensable and
circumstantial explanation upon a certain
point, in regard to which I wish to learn
your own interpretation. I have the honour
to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in
spite of my request, I meet Rodion
Romanovitch, I shall be compelled to
withdraw immediately and then you have
only yourself to blame. I write on the
assumption that Rodion Romanovitch
who appeared so ill at my visit, suddenly
recovered two hours later and so, being
able to leave the house, may visit you also.
I was confirmed in that belief by the
testimony of my own eyes in the lodging of
a drunken man who was run over and has
since died, to whose daughter, a young
woman of notorious behaviour, he gave
twenty-five roubles on the pretext of the
funeral, which gravely surprised me
knowing what pains you were at to raise
that sum. Herewith expressing my special
respect to your estimable daughter,
Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept
the respectful homage of
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‘Your humble servant,
‘P. LUZHIN.’
‘What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?’ began
Pulcheria Alexandrovna, almost weeping. ‘How can I ask
Rodya not to come? Yesterday he insisted so earnestly on
our refusing Pyotr Petrovitch and now we are ordered not
to receive Rodya! He will come on purpose if he knows,
and … what will happen then?’
‘Act on Avdotya Romanovna’s decision,’ Razumihin
answered calmly at once.
‘Oh, dear me! She says … goodness knows what she
says, she doesn’t explain her object! She says that it would
be best, at least, not that it would be best, but that it’s
absolutely necessary that Rodya should make a point of
being here at eight o’clock and that they must meet…. I
didn’t want even to show him the letter, but to prevent
him from coming by some stratagem with your help …
because he is so irritable…. Besides I don’t understand
about that drunkard who died and that daughter, and how
he could have given the daughter all the money … which
…’
‘Which cost you such sacrifice, mother,’ put in
Avdotya Romanovna.
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‘He was not himself yesterday,’ Razumihin said
thoughtfully, ‘if you only knew what he was up to in a
restaurant yesterday, though there was sense in it too….
Hm! He did say something, as we were going home
yesterday evening, about a dead man and a girl, but I
didn’t understand a word…. But last night, I myself …’
‘The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him
ourselves and there I assure you we shall see at once what’s
to be done. Besides, it’s getting late—good heavens, it’s
past ten,’ she cried looking at a splendid gold enamelled
watch which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian
chain, and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of
her dress. ‘A present from her fiancé ’ thought Razumihin.
‘We must start, Dounia, we must start,’ her mother
cried in a flutter. ‘He will be thinking we are still angry
after yesterday, from our coming so late. Merciful
heavens!’
While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat
and mantle; Dounia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as
Razumihin noticed, were not merely shabby but had holes
in them, and yet this evident poverty gave the two ladies
an air of special dignity, which is always found in people
who know how to wear poor clothes. Razumihin looked
reverently at Dounia and felt proud of escorting her. ‘The
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queen who mended her stockings in prison,’ he thought,
‘must have looked then every inch a queen and even more
a queen than at sumptuous banquets and levées.’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, ‘little
did I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my
darling, darling Rodya! I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofitch,’
she added, glancing at him timidly.
‘Don’t be afraid, mother,’ said Dounia, kissing her,
‘better have faith in him.’
‘Oh, dear, I have faith in him, but I haven’t slept all
night,’ exclaimed the poor woman.
They came out into the street.
‘Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this
morning I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna … she was all in
white … she came up to me, took my hand, and shook
her head at me, but so sternly as though she were blaming
me…. Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don’t
know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna’s dead!’
‘No, I didn’t know; who is Marfa Petrovna?’
‘She died suddenly; and only fancy …’
‘Afterwards, mamma,’ put in Dounia. ‘He doesn’t
know who Marfa Petrovna is.’
‘Ah, you don’t know? And I was thinking that you
knew all about us. Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don’t
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know what I am thinking about these last few days. I look
upon you really as a providence for us, and so I took it for
granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a
relation…. Don’t be angry with me for saying so. Dear
me, what’s the matter with your right hand? Have you
knocked it?’
‘Yes, I bruised it,’ muttered Razumihin overjoyed.
‘I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that
Dounia finds fault with me…. But, dear me, what a
cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does
this woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you
say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall
annoy him with my … weaknesses? Do advise me, Dmitri
Prokofitch, how am I to treat him? I feel quite distracted,
you know.’
‘Don’t question him too much about anything if you
see him frown; don’t ask him too much about his health;
he doesn’t like that.’
‘Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother!
But here are the stairs…. What an awful staircase!’
‘Mother, you are quite pale, don’t distress yourself,
darling,’ said Dounia caressing her, then with flashing eyes
she added: ‘He ought to be happy at seeing you, and you
are tormenting yourself so.’
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‘Wait, I’ll peep in and see whether he has waked up.’
The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on
before, and when they reached the landlady’s door on the
fourth storey, they noticed that her door was a tiny crack
open and that two keen black eyes were watching them
from the darkness within. When their eyes met, the door
was suddenly shut with such a slam that Pulcheria
Alexandrovna almost cried out.
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Chapter III
‘He is well, quite well!’ Zossimov cried cheerfully as
they entered.
He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in
the same place as before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was
sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully
washed and combed, as he had not been for some time
past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya
managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen.
Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with
his condition the day before, but he was still pale, listless,
and sombre. He looked like a wounded man or one who
has undergone some terrible physical suffering. His brows
were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He
spoke little and reluctantly, as though performing a duty,
and there was a restlessness in his movements.
He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his
finger to complete the impression of a man with a painful
abscess or a broken arm. The pale, sombre face lighted up
for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this
only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its
listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look
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of suffering remained, and Zossimov, watching and
studying his patient with all the zest of a young doctor
beginning to practise, noticed in him no joy at the arrival
of his mother and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden
determination to bear another hour or two of inevitable
torture. He saw later that almost every word of the
following conversation seemed to touch on some sore
place and irritate it. But at the same time he marvelled at
the power of controlling himself and hiding his feelings in
a patient who the previous day had, like a monomaniac,
fallen into a frenzy at the slightest word.
‘Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well,’ said
Raskolnikov, giving his mother and sister a kiss of
welcome which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at
once. ‘And I don’t say this as I did yesterday ’ he said,
addressing Razumihin, with a friendly pressure of his
hand.
‘Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day,’ began
Zossimov, much delighted at the ladies’ entrance, for he
had not succeeded in keeping up a conversation with his
patient for ten minutes. ‘In another three or four days, if
he goes on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he
was a month ago, or two … or perhaps even three. This
has been coming on for a long while…. eh? Confess, now,
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that it has been perhaps your own fault?’ he added, with a
tentative smile, as though still afraid of irritating him.
‘It is very possible,’ answered Raskolnikov coldly.
‘I should say, too,’ continued Zossimov with zest, ‘that
your complete recovery depends solely on yourself. Now
that one can talk to you, I should like to impress upon you
that it is essential to avoid the elementary, so to speak,
fundamental causes tending to produce your morbid
condition: in that case you will be cured, if not, it will go
from bad to worse. These fundamental causes I don’t
know, but they must be known to you. You are an
intelligent man, and must have observed yourself, of
course. I fancy the first stage of your derangement
coincides with your leaving the university. You must not
be left without occupation, and so, work and a definite
aim set before you might, I fancy, be very beneficial.’
‘Yes, yes; you are perfectly right…. I will make haste
and return to the university: and then everything will go
smoothly….’
Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to
make an effect before the ladies, was certainly somewhat
mystified, when, glancing at his patient, he observed
unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted an instant,
however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking
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Zossimov, especially for his visit to their lodging the
previous night.
‘What! he saw you last night?’ Raskolnikov asked, as
though startled. ‘Then you have not slept either after your
journey.’
‘Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o’clock. Dounia
and I never go to bed before two at home.’
‘I don’t know how to thank him either,’ Raskolnikov
went on, suddenly frowning and looking down. ‘Setting
aside the question of payment— forgive me for referring
to it (he turned to Zossimov)—I really don’t know what I
have done to deserve such special attention from you! I
simply don’t understand it … and … and … it weighs
upon me, indeed, because I don’t understand it. I tell you
so candidly.’
‘Don’t be irritated.’ Zossimov forced himself to laugh.
‘Assume that you are my first patient—well—we fellows
just beginning to practise love our first patients as if they
were our children, and some almost fall in love with them.
And, of course, I am not rich in patients.’
‘I say nothing about him,’ added Raskolnikov, pointing
to Razumihin, ‘though he has had nothing from me either
but insult and trouble.’
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