Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky(page 8)

Though who can tell, maybe it’s sometimes for the worse.
Will you take it?’
Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took
the three roubles and without a word went out.
Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment. But when
Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back,
mounted the stairs to Razumihin’s again and laying on the
table the German article and the three roubles, went out
again, still without uttering a word.
‘Are you raving, or what?’ Razumihin shouted, roused
to fury at last. ‘What farce is this? You’ll drive me crazy
too … what did you come to see me for, damn you?’
‘I don’t want … translation,’ muttered Raskolnikov
from the stairs.
‘Then what the devil do you want?’ shouted
Razumihin from above. Raskolnikov continued
descending the staircase in silence.
‘Hey, there! Where are you living?’
No answer.
‘Well, confound you then!’
But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street.
On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full
consciousness again by an unpleasant incident. A
coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave
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him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having

almost fallen under his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated
him that he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown
reason he had been walking in the very middle of the
bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his
teeth. He heard laughter, of course.
‘Serves him right!’
‘A pickpocket I dare say.’
‘Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the
wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him.’
‘It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.’
But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and
bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his
back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his
hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief
and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter
wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
‘Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.’
He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty
copecks. From his dress and appearance they might well
have taken him for a beggar asking alms in the streets, and
the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed to the
blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
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He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on
for ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards
the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water was
almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The
cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the
bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the
sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be
clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash went off, and
Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and not quite
definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still,
and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was
especially familiar to him. When he was attending the
university, he had hundreds of times—generally on his
way home—stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly
magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a
vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him
strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and
lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and
enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off
finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old
doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was
no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him
as strange and grotesque, that he should have stopped at
the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he
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could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same
theories and pictures that had interested him … so short a
time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his
heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that
seemed to him now—all his old past, his old thoughts, his
old problems and theories, his old impressions and that
picture and himself and all, all…. He felt as though he
were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from
his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his
hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in
his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a
sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned
and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off
from everyone and from everything at that moment.
Evening was coming on when he reached home, so
that he must have been walking about six hours. How and
where he came back he did not remember. Undressing,
and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on
the sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank
into oblivion….
It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream.
Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such
howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had
never heard.
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He could never have imagined such brutality, such
frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with
agony. But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder
and louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught
the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and
wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could
not make out what she was talking about; she was
beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being
mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant
was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a
croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as
quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at
once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice—it
was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and
beating the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head
against the steps—that’s clear, that can be told from the
sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the
world topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in
crowds from all the storeys and all the staircases; he heard
voices, exclamations, knocking, doors banging. ‘But why,
why, and how could it be?’ he repeated, thinking seriously
that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly!
And they would come to him then next, ‘for no doubt …
it’s all about that … about yesterday…. Good God!’ He
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would have fastened his door with the latch, but he could
not lift his hand … besides, it would be useless. Terror
gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed
him…. But at last all this uproar, after continuing about
ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was
moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering
threats and curses…. But at last he, too, seemed to be
silent, and now he could not be heard. ‘Can he have gone
away? Good Lord!’ Yes, and now the landlady is going
too, still weeping and moaning … and then her door
slammed…. Now the crowd was going from the stairs to
their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another,
raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a
whisper. There must have been numbers of them—almost
all the inmates of the block. ‘But, good God, how could it
be! And why, why had he come here!’
Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not
close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish,
such an intolerable sensation of infinite terror as he had
never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed
into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate
of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he
was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began
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to lay out what she had brought—bread, salt, a plate, a
spoon.
‘You’ve eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant.
You’ve been trudging about all day, and you’re shaking
with fever.’
‘Nastasya … what were they beating the landlady for?’
She looked intently at him.
‘Who beat the landlady?’
‘Just now … half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the
assistant superintendent, on the stairs…. Why was he illtreating
her like that, and … why was he here?’
Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her
scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened
at her searching eyes.
‘Nastasya, why don’t you speak?’ he said timidly at last
in a weak voice.
‘It’s the blood,’ she answered at last softly, as though
speaking to herself.
‘Blood? What blood?’ he muttered, growing white and
turning towards the wall.
Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
‘Nobody has been beating the landlady,’ she declared at
last in a firm, resolute voice.
He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
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‘I heard it myself…. I was not asleep … I was sitting
up,’ he said still more timidly. ‘I listened a long while. The
assistant superintendent came…. Everyone ran out on to
the stairs from all the flats.’
‘No one has been here. That’s the blood crying in your
ears. When there’s no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you
begin fancying things…. Will you eat something?’
He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him,
watching him.
‘Give me something to drink … Nastasya.’
She went downstairs and returned with a white
earthenware jug of water. He remembered only
swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling some on
his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.
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Chapter III
He was not completely unconscious, however, all the
time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, sometimes
delirious, sometimes half conscious. He remembered a
great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there
were a number of people round him; they wanted to take
him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling
and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the
room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only now
and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they
threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and
mocked at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his
bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom he
seemed to know very well, though he could not
remember who he was, and this fretted him, even made
him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a
month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day.
But of that—of that he had no recollection, and yet every
minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought
to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying to
remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful,
intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up, would
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have run away, but someone always prevented him by
force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness.
At last he returned to complete consciousness.
It happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine
days the sun shone into the room at that hour, throwing a
streak of light on the right wall and the corner near the
door. Nastasya was standing beside him with another
person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very
inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a
full, short- waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The
landlady was peeping in at the half-opened door.
Raskolnikov sat up.
‘Who is this, Nastasya?’ he asked, pointing to the
young man.
‘I say, he’s himself again!’ she said.
‘He is himself,’ echoed the man.
Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the
landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always
shy and dreaded conversations or discussions. She was a
woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and buxom,
with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness
and laziness, and absurdly bashful.
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‘Who … are you?’ he went on, addressing the man.
But at that moment the door was flung open, and,
stooping a little, as he was so tall, Razumihin came in.
‘What a cabin it is!’ he cried. ‘I am always knocking my
head. You call this a lodging! So you are conscious,
brother? I’ve just heard the news from Pashenka.’
‘He has just come to,’ said Nastasya.
‘Just come to,’ echoed the man again, with a smile.
‘And who are you?’ Razumihin asked, suddenly
addressing him. ‘My name is Vrazumihin, at your service;
not Razumihin, as I am always called, but Vrazumihin, a
student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are
you?’
‘I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant
Shelopaev, and I’ve come on business.’
‘Please sit down.’ Razumihin seated himself on the
other side of the table. ‘It’s a good thing you’ve come to,
brother,’ he went on to Raskolnikov. ‘For the last four
days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had
to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see
you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you
carefully and said at once it was nothing serious—
something seemed to have gone to your head. Some
nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you
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have not had enough beer and radish, but it’s nothing
much, it will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is a
first-rate fellow! He is making quite a name. Come, I
won’t keep you,’ he said, addressing the man again. ‘Will
you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this
is the second time they have sent from the office; but it
was another man last time, and I talked to him. Who was
it came before?’
‘That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if
you please, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in
our office, too.’
‘He was more intelligent than you, don’t you think so?’
‘Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am.’
‘Quite so; go on.’
‘At your mamma’s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch
Vahrushin, of whom I presume you have heard more than
once, a remittance is sent to you from our office,’ the man
began, addressing Raskolnikov. ‘If you are in an
intelligible condition, I’ve thirty-five roubles to remit to
you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy
Ivanovitch at your mamma’s request instructions to that
effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?’
‘Yes, I remember … Vahrushin,’ Raskolnikov said
dreamily.
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‘You hear, he knows Vahrushin,’ cried Razumihin.
‘He is in ‘an intelligible condition’! And I see you are an
intelligent man too. Well, it’s always pleasant to hear
words of wisdom.’
‘That’s the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch.
And at the request of your mamma, who has sent you a
remittance once before in the same manner through him,
he did not refuse this time also, and sent instructions to
Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you
thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come.’
‘That ‘hoping for better to come’ is the best thing
you’ve said, though ‘your mamma’ is not bad either.
Come then, what do you say? Is he fully conscious, eh?’
‘That’s all right. If only he can sign this little paper.’
‘He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?’
‘Yes, here’s the book.’
‘Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I’ll hold you. Take
the pen and scribble ‘Raskolnikov’ for him. For just now,
brother, money is sweeter to us than treacle.’
‘I don’t want it,’ said Raskolnikov, pushing away the
pen.
‘Not want it?’
‘I won’t sign it.’
‘How the devil can you do without signing it?’
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‘I don’t want … the money.’
‘Don’t want the money! Come, brother, that’s
nonsense, I bear witness. Don’t trouble, please, it’s only
that he is on his travels again. But that’s pretty common
with him at all times though…. You are a man of
judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more
simply, take his hand and he will sign it. Here.’
‘But I can come another time.’
‘No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man
of judgment…. Now, Rodya, don’t keep your visitor, you
see he is waiting,’ and he made ready to hold
Raskolnikov’s hand in earnest.
‘Stop, I’ll do it alone,’ said the latter, taking the pen and
signing his name.
The messenger took out the money and went away.
‘Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?’
‘Yes,’ answered Raskolnikov.
‘Is there any soup?’
‘Some of yesterday’s,’ answered Nastasya, who was still
standing there.
‘With potatoes and rice in it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea.’
‘Very well.’
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Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound
astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up
his mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. ‘I
believe I am not wandering. I believe it’s reality,’ he
thought.
In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the
soup, and announced that the tea would be ready directly.
With the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt,
pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set
as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.
‘It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna
were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could
empty them.’
‘Well, you are a cool hand,’ muttered Nastasya, and she
departed to carry out his orders.
Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention.
Meanwhile Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him,
as clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov’s
head, although he was able to sit up, and with his right
hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it
might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm.
Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a
second, then a third. But after giving him a few more
spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and said
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that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have
more.
Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.
‘And will you have tea?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we
may venture on without the faculty. But here is the beer!’
He moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and meat in
front of him, and began eating as though he had not
touched food for three days.
‘I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day
now,’ he mumbled with his mouth full of beef, ‘and it’s all
Pashenka, your dear little landlady, who sees to that; she
loves to do anything for me. I don’t ask for it, but, of
course, I don’t object. And here’s Nastasya with the tea.
She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won’t you have
some beer?’
‘Get along with your nonsense!’
‘A cup of tea, then?’
‘A cup of tea, maybe.’
‘Pour it out. Stay, I’ll pour it out myself. Sit down.’
He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the
sofa again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick
man’s head, raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls,
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again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly, as
though this process was the principal and most effective
means towards his friend’s recovery. Raskolnikov said
nothing and made no resistance, though he felt quite
strong enough to sit up on the sofa without support and
could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even
perhaps could have walked about. But from some queer,
almost animal, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his
strength and lying low for a time, pretending if necessary
not to be yet in full possession of his faculties, and
meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet
he could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After
sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his
head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank back
on the pillow. There were actually real pillows under his
head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that,
too, and took note of it.
‘Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to
make him some raspberry tea,’ said Razumihin, going
back to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again.
‘And where is she to get raspberries for you?’ asked
Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers
and sipping tea through a lump of sugar.
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‘She’ll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all
sorts of things have been happening while you have been
laid up. When you decamped in that rascally way without
leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to find
you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How
I ran about making inquiries for you! This lodging of
yours I had forgotten, though I never remembered it,
indeed, because I did not know it; and as for your old
lodgings, I could only remember it was at the Five
Corners, Harlamov’s house. I kept trying to find that
Harlamov’s house, and afterwards it turned out that it was
not Harlamov’s, but Buch’s. How one muddles up sound
sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance
to the address bureau next day, and only fancy, in two
minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there.’
‘My name!’
‘I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they
could not find while I was there. Well, it’s a long story.
But as soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to know
all your affairs—all, all, brother, I know everything;
Nastasya here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of
Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the houseporter
and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the
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head clerk in the police office, and, last, but not least, of
Pashenka; Nastasya here knows….’
‘He’s got round her,’ Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.
‘Why don’t you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya
Nikiforovna?’
‘You are a one!’ Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into
a giggle. ‘I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,’ she added
suddenly, recovering from her mirth.
‘I’ll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long
story short, I was going in for a regular explosion here to
uproot all malignant influences in the locality, but
Pashenka won the day. I had not expected, brother, to
find her so … prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?’
Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes
fixed upon him, full of alarm.
‘And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,’
Razumihin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.
‘Ah, the sly dog!’ Nastasya shrieked again. This
conversation afforded her unspeakable delight.
‘It’s a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the
right way at first. You ought to have approached her
differently. She is, so to speak, a most unaccountable
character. But we will talk about her character later….
How could you let things come to such a pass that she
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gave up sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You
must have been mad to sign an I O U. And that promise
of marriage when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was
alive? … I know all about it! But I see that’s a delicate
matter and I am an ass; forgive me. But, talking of
foolishness, do you know Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly
so foolish as you would think at first sight?’
‘No,’ mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling
that it was better to keep up the conversation.
‘She isn’t, is she?’ cried Razumihin, delighted to get an
answer out of him. ‘But she is not very clever either, eh?
She is essentially, essentially an unaccountable character! I
am sometimes quite at a loss, I assure you…. She must be
forty; she says she is thirty- six, and of course she has every
right to say so. But I swear I judge her intellectually,
simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort
of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or
what not! I don’t understand it! Well, that’s all nonsense.
Only, seeing that you are not a student now and have lost
your lessons and your clothes, and that through the young
lady’s death she has no need to treat you as a relation, she
suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den and
dropped all your old relations with her, she planned to get
rid of you. And she’s been cherishing that design a long
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time, but was sorry to lose the I O U, for you assured her
yourself that your mother would pay.’
‘It was base of me to say that…. My mother herself is
almost a beggar … and I told a lie to keep my lodging …
and be fed,’ Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.
‘Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at
that point Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man.
Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on
her own account, she is too retiring; but the business man
is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the
question, ‘Is there any hope of realising the I O U?’
Answer: there is, because he has a mother who would save
her Rodya with her hundred and twenty-five roubles
pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who
would go into bondage for his sake. That’s what he was
building upon…. Why do you start? I know all the ins and
outs of your affairs now, my dear boy—it’s not for
nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you
were her prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a
friend…. But I tell you what it is; an honest and sensitive
man is open; and a business man ‘listens and goes on
eating’ you up. Well, then she gave the I O U by way of
payment to this Tchebarov, and without hesitation he
made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all
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this I wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience,
but by that time harmony reigned between me and
Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair,
engaging that you would pay. I went security for you,
brother. Do you understand? We called Tchebarov, flung
him ten roubles and got the I O U back from him, and
here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts
your word now. Here, take it, you see I have torn it.’
Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov
looked at him and turned to the wall without uttering a
word. Even Razumihin felt a twinge.
‘I see, brother,’ he said a moment later, ‘that I have
been playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse you
with my chatter, and I believe I have only made you
cross.’
‘Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?’
Raskolnikov asked, after a moment’s pause without
turning his head.
‘Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when
I brought Zametov one day.’
‘Zametov? The head clerk? What for?’ Raskolnikov
turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.
‘What’s the matter with you? … What are you upset
about? He wanted to make your acquaintance because I
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talked to him a lot about you…. How could I have found
out so much except from him? He is a capital fellow,
brother, first-rate … in his own way, of course. Now we
are friends—see each other almost every day. I have
moved into this part, you know. I have only just moved.
I’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice….
Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?
‘Did I say anything in delirium?’
‘I should think so! You were beside yourself.’
‘What did I rave about?’
‘What next? What did you rave about? What people do
rave about…. Well, brother, now I must not lose time. To
work.’ He got up from the table and took up his cap.
‘What did I rave about?’
‘How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out
some secret? Don’t worry yourself; you said nothing about
a countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about
ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and
some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch,
the assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of
special interest to you was your own sock. You whined,
‘Give me my sock.’ Zametov hunted all about your room
for your socks, and with his own scented, ring-bedecked
fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you
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comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held
the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from
you. It is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this
moment. And then you asked so piteously for fringe for
your trousers. We tried to find out what sort of fringe, but
we could not make it out. Now to business! Here are
thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you
an account of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov
know at the same time, though he ought to have been
here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya,
look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he
wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka
what is wanted myself. Good-bye!’
‘He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a deep one!’ said
Nastasya as he went out; then she opened the door and
stood listening, but could not resist running downstairs
after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say
to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by
Razumihin.
No sooner had she left the room than the sick man
flung off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a
madman. With burning, twitching impatience he had
waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work.
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But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded
him.
‘Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it
yet or not? What if they know it and are only pretending,
mocking me while I am laid up, and then they will come
in and tell me that it’s been discovered long ago and that
they have only … What am I to do now? That’s what I’ve
forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I
remembered a minute ago.’
He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in
miserable bewilderment about him; he walked to the
door, opened it, listened; but that was not what he
wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he
rushed to the corner where there was a hole under the
paper, began examining it, put his hand into the hole,
fumbled—but that was not it. He went to the stove,
opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed
edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were
lying there just as he had thrown them. No one had
looked, then! Then he remembered the sock about which
Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on
the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust
and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything on
it.
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‘Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent
for to the police office? Where’s the notice? Bah! I am
mixing it up; that was then. I looked at my sock then, too,
but now … now I have been ill. But what did Zametov
come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?’ he muttered,
helplessly sitting on the sofa again. ‘What does it mean?
Am I still in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real….
Ah, I remember; I must escape! Make haste to escape. Yes,
I must, I must escape! Yes … but where? And where are
my clothes? I’ve no boots. They’ve taken them away!
They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat—
they passed that over! And here is money on the table,
thank God! And here’s the I O U … I’ll take the money
and go and take another lodging. They won’t find me! …
Yes, but the address bureau? They’ll find me, Razumihin
will find me. Better escape altogether … far away … to
America, and let them do their worst! And take the I O U
… it would be of use there…. What else shall I take?
They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can walk, haha-
ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about
it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if they have
set a watch there—policemen! What’s this tea? Ah, and
here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!’
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He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a
glassful of beer, and gulped it down with relish, as though
quenching a flame in his breast. But in another minute the
beer had gone to his head, and a faint and even pleasant
shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the
quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew
more and more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant
drowsiness came upon him. With a sense of comfort he
nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more closely
about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the
old, ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep,
sound, refreshing sleep.
He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his
eyes and saw Razumihin standing in the doorway,
uncertain whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up
quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to
recall something.
‘Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in
the parcel!’ Razumihin shouted down the stairs. ‘You shall
have the account directly.’
‘What time is it?’ asked Raskolnikov, looking round
uneasily.
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‘Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it’s almost evening,
it will be six o’clock directly. You have slept more than
six hours.’
‘Good heavens! Have I?’
‘And why not? It will do you good. What’s the hurry?
A tryst, is it? We’ve all time before us. I’ve been waiting
for the last three hours for you; I’ve been up twice and
found you asleep. I’ve called on Zossimov twice; not at
home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And
I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve
been moving to-day, moving with my uncle. I have an
uncle living with me now. But that’s no matter, to
business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it
directly. And how do you feel now, brother?’
‘I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you
been here long?’
‘I tell you I’ve been waiting for the last three hours.’
‘No, before.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘How long have you been coming here?’
‘Why I told you all about it this morning. Don’t you
remember?’
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Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a
dream to him. He could not remember alone, and looked
inquiringly at Razumihin.
‘Hm!’ said the latter, ‘he has forgotten. I fancied then
that you were not quite yourself. Now you are better for
your sleep…. You really look much better. First-rate!
Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy.’
He began untying the bundle, which evidently
interested him.
‘Believe me, brother, this is something specially near
my heart. For we must make a man of you. Let’s begin
from the top. Do you see this cap?’ he said, taking out of
the bundle a fairly good though cheap and ordinary cap.
‘Let me try it on.’
‘Presently, afterwards,’ said Raskolnikov, waving it off
pettishly.
‘Come, Rodya, my boy, don’t oppose it, afterwards
will be too late; and I shan’t sleep all night, for I bought it
by guess, without measure. Just right!’ he cried
triumphantly, fitting it on, ‘just your size! A proper headcovering
is the first thing in dress and a recommendation
in its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is always
obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into
any public place where other people wear their hats or
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caps. People think he does it from slavish politeness, but
it’s simply because he is ashamed of his bird’s nest; he is
such a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are two
specimens of headgear: this Palmerston’—he took from
the corner Raskolnikov’s old, battered hat, which for
some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston—‘or this
jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I
paid for it, Nastasya!’ he said, turning to her, seeing that
Raskolnikov did not speak.
‘Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,’ answered
Nastasya.
‘Twenty copecks, silly!’ he cried, offended. ‘Why,
nowadays you would cost more than that—eighty
copecks! And that only because it has been worn. And it’s
bought on condition that when’s it’s worn out, they will
give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now
let us pass to the United States of America, as they called
them at school. I assure you I am proud of these breeches,’
and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer
trousers of grey woollen material. ‘No holes, no spots, and
quite respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat to
match, quite in the fashion. And its being worn really is an
improvement, it’s softer, smoother…. You see, Rodya, to
my thinking, the great thing for getting on in the world is
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always to keep to the seasons; if you don’t insist on having
asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse;
and it’s the same with this purchase. It’s summer now, so
I’ve been buying summer things— warmer materials will
be wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw these
away in any case … especially as they will be done for by
then from their own lack of coherence if not your higher
standard of luxury. Come, price them! What do you say?
Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And remember the
condition: if you wear these out, you will have another
suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at
Fedyaev’s; if you’ve bought a thing once, you are satisfied
for life, for you will never go there again of your own free
will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You see that
they are a bit worn, but they’ll last a couple of months, for
it’s foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary of the
English Embassy sold them last week—he had only worn
them six days, but he was very short of cash. Price—a
rouble and a half. A bargain?’
‘But perhaps they won’t fit,’ observed Nastasya.
‘Not fit? Just look!’ and he pulled out of his pocket
Raskolnikov’s old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry
mud. ‘I did not go empty- handed—they took the size
from this monster. We all did our best. And as to your
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linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with
are three shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front….
Well now then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles
twenty-five copecks the suit—together three roubles five
copecks—a rouble and a half for the boots—for, you see,
they are very good—and that makes four roubles fifty-five
copecks; five roubles for the underclothes—they were
bought in the lo— which makes exactly nine roubles fiftyfive
copecks. Forty-five copecks change in coppers. Will
you take it? And so, Rodya, you are set up with a
complete new rig-out, for your overcoat will serve, and
even has a style of its own. That comes from getting one’s
clothes from Sharmer’s! As for your socks and other
things, I leave them to you; we’ve twenty-five roubles left.
And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don’t
you worry. I tell you she’ll trust you for anything. And
now, brother, let me change your linen, for I daresay you
will throw off your illness with your shirt.’
‘Let me be! I don’t want to!’ Raskolnikov waved him
off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin’s efforts to
be playful about his purchases.
‘Come, brother, don’t tell me I’ve been trudging
around for nothing,’ Razumihin insisted. ‘Nastasya, don’t
be bashful, but help me—that’s it,’ and in spite of
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Raskolnikov’s resistance he changed his linen. The latter
sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said
nothing.
‘It will be long before I get rid of them,’ he thought.
‘What money was all that bought with?’ he asked at last,
gazing at the wall.
‘Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought
from Vahrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotten
that, too?’
‘I remember now,’ said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen
silence. Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.
The door opened and a tall, stout man whose
appearance seemed familiar to Raskolnikov came in.
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Chapter IV
Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless,
clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore
spectacles, and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was
twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable loose
coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him
loose, fashionable and spick and span; his linen was
irreproachable, his watch-chain was massive. In manner he
was slow and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time
studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his
self-importance, but it was apparent at every instant. All
his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was
clever at his work.
‘I’ve been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he’s
come to himself,’ cried Razumihin.
‘I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?’ said
Zossimov to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and,
sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as
comfortably as he could.
‘He is still depressed,’ Razumihin went on. ‘We’ve just
changed his linen and he almost cried.’
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‘That’s very natural; you might have put it off if he did
not wish it…. His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still
aching, eh?’
‘I am well, I am perfectly well!’ Raskolnikov declared
positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and
looked at them with glittering eyes, but sank back on to
the pillow at once and turned to the wall. Zossimov
watched him intently.
‘Very good…. Going on all right,’ he said lazily. ‘Has
he eaten anything?’
They told him, and asked what he might have.
‘He may have anything … soup, tea … mushrooms and
cucumbers, of course, you must not give him; he’d better
not have meat either, and … but no need to tell you that!’
Razumihin and he looked at each other. ‘No more
medicine or anything. I’ll look at him again to-morrow.
Perhaps, to-day even … but never mind …’
‘To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk,’ said
Razumihin. ‘We are going to the Yusupov garden and
then to the Palais de Crystal.’
‘I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don’t
know … a little, maybe … but we’ll see.’
‘Ach, what a nuisance! I’ve got a house-warming party
to-night; it’s only a step from here. Couldn’t he come? He
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could lie on the sofa. You are coming?’ Razumihin said to
Zossimov. ‘Don’t forget, you promised.’
‘All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?’
‘Oh, nothing—tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie
… just our friends.’
‘And who?’
‘All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my
old uncle, and he is new too—he only arrived in
Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We
meet once in five years.’
‘What is he?’
‘He’s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster;
gets a little pension. He is sixty-five—not worth talking
about…. But I am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the
head of the Investigation Department here … But you
know him.’
‘Is he a relation of yours, too?’
‘A very distant one. But why are you scowling?
Because you quarrelled once, won’t you come then?’
‘I don’t care a damn for him.’
‘So much the better. Well, there will be some students,
a teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer and
Zametov.’
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