III
Not that he was completely knocked out for the entire duration of his sickness: he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes semi-conscious. Much of it came back to him later. At one point it seemed to him that a big crowd was gathering around him, wanting to grab him and take him off somewhere, endlessly bickering and arguing about him. At another he was suddenly alone in the room, everyone had left, everyone was scared of him, and only occasionally did someone open the door a fraction to take a look at him; they were threatening him, plotting amongst themselves, laughing and teasing him. Nastasya, he recalled, was often beside him; he could also make out one other person who seemed very familiar, but who it was exactly he couldn’t quite tell, and he was upset about it and even cried. Sometimes it seemed he’d been lying in bed for a month already; at others he thought it was all one and the same day. But as forthat – well, he’d completely forgotten aboutthat; yet not a minute passed without him remembering that he’d forgotten something that mustn’t be forgotten – and he went through agony trying to recall it.
Groaning, he would succumb to fury or to dreadful, unbearable terror. At such moments he wanted to get up and run away, but there was always someone holding him back, and once again he would lose all strength and awareness. At last, he came round fully.
This happened in the morning, at ten o’clock. At this hour, on bright days, a long shaft of sunlight would travel the length of his right wall and illuminate the corner next to the door. Nastasya was standing by his bed, along with another person, a total stranger, who was examining him with the greatest curiosity. This was a young lad wearing a
peasant-style coat and a wispy beard – a messenger of some kind, by the look of him. His landlady was peering through the half-open door. Raskolnikov lifted himself up. ‘Who’s this, Nastasya?’ he asked, pointing at the lad. ‘Well I never, he’s woken up!’ she said. ‘Indeed he has,’ echoed the messenger. Realizing he had woken, the landlady, who was peeping in from the threshold, immediately drew the door to and made herself scarce. She’d always been shy and found any conversation or exchange of views very trying; she was about forty, large and fat, black-browed and black-eyed, kind-hearted from being large and lazy; and, as it happens, very easy on the eye. But needlessly coy. ‘And you . . . are?’ he persisted, addressing the messenger directly. But at that moment the door opened again and, stooping a little, in walked Razumikhin. ‘A real ship’s cabin!’ he shouted on entering. ‘I always bang my head; and they call it an apartment! So you’ve woken up, brother? Pashenka, your landlady, just told me.’ ‘He’s just woken up now,’ said Nastasya. ‘Indeed he has,’ the messenger repeated with a little smile. ‘And who, pray, might you be?’ asked Razumikhin, 11suddenly addressing him. ‘I, you see, am Vrazumikhin; not Razumikhin, as everyone calls me, but Vrazumikhin, a student, gentry by birth, and this is my friend. And who are you?’ ‘I’m the messenger at our office, on behalf of the merchant Shelopayev, sir, and I’ve come on business, sir.’ ‘Do sit down on this chair.’ Razumikhin sat himself down on another, on the other side of the little table. ‘Good job you woke up, brother,’ he continued, addressing Raskolnikov. ‘You’ve barely touched food or drink for four days. Except for the tea we gave you from a spoon. I brought Zosimov to see you twice. Remember Zosimov? He
examined you closely and said straight away that it was nothing serious – a rush of blood to the head or something.
Nerves playing up, he says, lousy nosh, not enough beer and horseradish, no wonder you’re sick – but it’s nothing, you’ll be right as rain. He’s a good egg, Zosimov! All the makings of a fine doctor. Well, sir, I’m not stopping you,’ he said, addressing the messenger once more. ‘Would you care to explain your purpose? Note, dear Rodya, that this is already the second visit from their office; only before it wasn’t this chap, but another, and the two of us had a bit of a chat. Who was that man who called in before you?’ ‘That must have been the day before yesterday, yes indeed, sir. That would have been Alexei Semyonovich; also works in our office, sir.’ ‘He’s probably a bit brighter than you, wouldn’t you say?’ ‘Indeed, sir; a bit more impressive, sure enough.’ ‘Admirable, admirable. Carry on, then.’ ‘Well, sir, by way of Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, whom you will have heard of more than once, I suppose, and at the request of your mama, I have a remittance for you by way of our office,’ the messenger began, addressing Raskolnikov directly. ‘In the event of your already being in possession of all your faculties, sir, I have thirty-five roubles to hand over, sir, seeing as Mr Shelopayev was instructed about this by Mr Vakhrushin, at the request of your mama, as per previously. Do you happen to know him, sir?’ ‘Yes . . . I remember . . . Vakhrushin . . . ,’ said Raskolnikov pensively. ‘Hear that? He knows the merchant Vakhrushin!’ cried Razumikhin. ‘What was that about faculties? Still, I see that you’re a bright spark, too. Well, well! It’s always nice to hear clever talk.’ ‘That is he, sir, Vakhrushin, Afanasy Ivanovich, and at the request of your mama, who sent a remittance by way of him as per previously, he did not refuse on this occasion either and just the other day, from his location, he instructed Mr
Shelopayev to transfer thirty-five roubles to you, sir, in the hope that things look up, sir.’ ‘“In the hope that things look up” – you’ve outdone yourself there; and the bit about “your mama” wasn’t bad, either. So what d’you reckon? Is he or isn’t he in full possession of his senses, eh?’ ‘Not for me to say, sir. All I need is a little signature.’ ‘He can manage that! What’s that you’ve got – a book?’ ‘A book, sir, yes indeed, sir.’ ‘Give it here then. Right, Rodya, up you get. I’ll support you. Just scribble Raskolnikov for him. Take the pen, brother – money’s sweeter than syrup for us right now.’ ‘No need,’ said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.
‘No need for what?’ ‘I won’t sign.’ ‘Hell’s bells, man! What do you mean you won’t sign?’ ‘No need . . . for money . . .’ ‘No need for money, he says! Now that’s a lie, brother, as I’m your witness! Please don’t be alarmed, he’s just . . . wandering off again. Happens to him even when he’s wide awake . . . You’re a sensible man and we’ll take him in hand. That’s to say we’ll simply take his hand and help him
sign. Now, look lively . . .’ ‘Why don’t I call another time, sir.’ ‘No, no, don’t put yourself out. You’re a sensible sort . . .
Well now, Rodya, don’t let’s keep our guest . . . You can see he’s waiting,’ – and he prepared in all seriousness to guide Raskolnikov’s hand. ‘Leave off! I’ll do it myself . . . ,’ said Raskolnikov, taking the pen and signing the book. The messenger took out the money and left. ‘Bravo! And now, brother, perhaps you’re hungry?’
‘I am,’ replied Raskolnikov. ‘Got any soup?’ ‘Yesterday’s,’ replied Nastasya, who had been standing right there all this time.
‘Potato soup with rice?’ ‘Potato and rice.’ ‘I know it by heart. Well, let’s have the soup, and some
tea while you’re at it.’ ‘Coming up.’ Raskolnikov observed all this in deep astonishment and with dull, meaningless fear. He resolved to say nothing and wait: what next? ‘I don’t think I’m raving,’ he thought, ‘this seems real enough . . .’ Two minutes later Nastasya returned with the soup and announced that tea was also on its way. Two spoons and two plates had materialized, along with a salt cellar, a pepper pot, mustard for beef, and other things besides – a spread the likes of which he hadn’t seen for ages. The tablecloth was clean. ‘Nastasyushka, we wouldn’t say no to a couple of bottles of beer from Praskovya Pavlovna. That’d be just the thing, young lady.’ ‘You’re a fast one!’ muttered Nastasya, and went off to do his bidding.
Raskolnikov continued to stare with the same wild intensity. Meanwhile Razumikhin moved over to him on the couch, cradled his head with bear-like clumsiness in his left arm, even though Raskolnikov could very well have sat himself up, and with his right hand brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth, having first blown on it several times lest it burnt him. But the soup was barely warm.
Raskolnikov hungrily swallowed one spoonful, then another, then a third. But after feeding him a few more, Razumikhin suddenly stopped and declared that he would need to consult Zosimov before continuing.
Nastasya came in, bearing two bottles of beer.
‘Some tea as well?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘So bring that, too, Nastasya, quick as you can – no expert approval needed for tea, as far as I know. And here’s
the beer!’ He sat down on his chair again, drew the soup and beef towards him and set about them as if he hadn’t eaten for three days. ‘You know, brother, I dine here like this every day now,’ he said through a mouth full of beef, ‘and it’s all Pashenka’s doing, your landlady, my dinner lady. Treats me like royalty.
I don’t insist on it, needless to say, but nor do I object. And here’s Nastasya with the tea. She doesn’t hang about! A
drop of beer, Nastyenka?’
‘Enough of your mischief!’
‘A spot of tea?’ ‘Well, all right.’ ‘Help yourself. No, wait, I’ll pour you a cup. You sit down here at the table.’ Without a moment’s delay he poured out one cup, then another, abandoned his meal and moved over to the couch again. He cradled the patient’s head in his left arm as before, lifted him up a bit and began giving him sips of tea with a little spoon, still blowing on it continuously and with particular zeal, as if the very crux of the remedy lay in this process of blowing. Raskolnikov said nothing and offered no resistance, despite feeling more than enough strength in himself to sit up on the couch unaided, enough not just to hold a spoon or cup, but even, perhaps, to walk. But some sort of strange, almost animal cunning suddenly prompted him to conceal his strength for the time being, to lie low, even to pretend that he was still not quite with it, if need be, while listening hard and trying to establish what was actually happening here. But his disgust proved too strong: after gulping down nine or ten spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly shook his head free, tetchily pushed the spoon away and fell back onto the pillows. He had real pillows beneath his head now – with feathers and clean slips; he noticed this, too, and took it into consideration. ‘Let’s get Pashenka to send us up some raspberry jam, today, then we can make him a drink,’ said Razumikhin,
taking his seat again and tucking into his soup and beer. ‘And where’s she going to find raspberries?’ asked Nastasya, holding her tea-filled saucer on her five outspread fingers and filtering the tea into her mouth 12‘through the sugar lump’. ‘In a shop, my friend, that’s where. Rodya, you’ve no idea what you’ve been missing. When, like a born swindler, you ran off that time without even telling me your address, I got so annoyed I decided to track you down and punish you. I set about it that very same day. I walked everywhere, asked everyone! I’d forgotten all about this place, your latest; not that there was anything to forget, mind you, seeing as I never knew. And as for your previous address – Kharlamov’s house is all I remember, by the Five Corners.
So I searched high and low for Kharlamov’s house, only to discover that it wasn’t Kharlamov’s house at all, but Bukh’s – funny how sounds can trip you up! Well then I really got mad. Got mad and headed off, come what may, to the address bureau the very next day and, just imagine, they found you in two minutes flat. You’re on their books.’ ‘I suppose I am!’ ‘Too right. But General Kobelev now – no one could find him all the time I was there. But that’s a long story. The second I barged in here, I immediately familiarized myself with all your affairs; all of them, brother, every last one. I know everything; ask her – she saw. I met Nikodim Fomich, had Ilya Petrovich pointed out to me, met the caretaker, met Mr Alexander Grigoryevich Zametov, head clerk in the police bureau here, and last of all I met Pashenka – the icing on the cake; ask her, she knows . . .’ ‘He sweetened her up,’ mumbled Nastasya with a cheeky grin. ‘You’re sweet enough already, Nastasya Nikiforovna.’ ‘You old dog!’ exclaimed Nastasya and burst out laughing. ‘Anyway, I’m Petrovna, not Nikiforovna,’ she
suddenly added, once she’d stopped laughing. ‘We’ll bear that in mind, young lady. So, brother, to cut a long story short, my first thought was to unleash a stream 13 of electricityon this whole place, so as to eradicate every last prejudice here once and for all; but Pashenka came out on top. I would never have thought, brother, that she was h14 so, well . . .avenante-is. . . eh? Wouldn’t you say?’ Raskolnikov said nothing, though his troubled gaze did not leave Razumikhin for one second, and now, too, he carried on staring right at him. ‘Not half,’ Razumikhin went on, quite unembarrassed by the silence, as if he were echoing a reply, ‘not half, in every department.’ ‘You beast!’ shrieked Nastasya, for whom this conversation was, by all appearances, a source of sheer delight. ‘It’s a crying shame, brother, that you got off on the wrong foot with her right from the word go. That wasn’t the way to play it. After all, she has the most, well, surprising character! But more of that anon . . . I mean, how did you let things get to the stage where she permits herself not to send up dinner? And what about the promissory note? You must be mad, signing such things!
And what about the wedding that was on the cards when her girl, Natalya Yegorovna, was still alive . . . I know everything! But I see this is a delicate topic and I’m an ass.
Forgive me. Talking of stupidity, Praskovya Pavlovna – Pashenka – isn’t half as stupid as you might think, eh?’ ‘Yes . . . ,’ said Raskolnikov, forcing out a reply and looking away, well aware that it was in his interests to keep the conversation going. ‘Isn’t that right?’ cried Razumikhin, visibly delighted to have received a reply. ‘But nor is she clever, eh? A thoroughly, thoroughly surprising character! You know, brother, I barely know what to make of her . . . I bet she’s
the wrong side of forty. Thirty-six, she says, and it’s her sacred right to do so. Let me tell you, though: I judge her in a largely intellectual, purely metaphysical way: think of us as a kind of emblem – puts your algebra to shame! I don’t understand the first thing about it! But enough of all this drivel. The fact of the matter is this: seeing that you were no longer a student, that you’d lost your lessons and your clothes, and that after the death of the young lady there was no point treating you like family any more, she suddenly got scared; and seeing as you, for your part, were holed up in your room and had started ignoring her, she came up with the idea of kicking you out. She’d been considering it for some time, in fact, only she wanted her money back. What’s more, you’d assured her yourself that Mama would pay . . .’ ‘I said that because I’m a scoundrel . . . My mother is almost reduced to begging herself . . . and I lied in order to stay on here and . . . be fed,’ said Raskolnikov, pronouncing the words loudly and distinctly. ‘Very sensible of you, too. The only problem was this: who should show up but Mr Chebarov, court counsellor and all-round man of action. Pashenka wouldn’t have come up with any of this without him – she’s far too coy; but a man of action isn’t coy and his first action, of course, was to ask: any hope of enforcing the promissory note? The reply: yes, thanks to a mama who’s ready to dip into her hundred-and- twenty-five-rouble pension to save her Rodya, even if it means her going hungry, and thanks to a sister ready to sell herself into bondage for her brother. That was enough for Chebarov to be getting on with . . . Why are you fidgeting? I know all your secrets now, brother – that’s what comes of you being so open with Pashenka when you were still part of the family – and I’m telling you all this now because I care about you . . . That’s the thing, you see: a man of honesty and feeling opens his heart, while a man of action listens and whistles, then gobbles him up. So she let him
have this promissory note by way of payment, and Chebarov made a formal claim without batting an eye.
When I learned about this I was on the verge of unleashing an electric stream on him as well, just to clear my conscience, but that was when Pashenka and I had started getting on so well, so I called an end to the whole business, right at its source, by vouching that you would pay. I vouched for you, brother, do you hear? We called Chebarov over, stuffed ten roubles down his throat and got the bit of paper back, which I have the honour of presenting to you – your word is enough for them now. So here, take the thing, with a good rip in it from me, just like it’s supposed to have.’ Razumikhin placed the promissory note on the table.
Raskolnikov took one glance at it and, without saying a word, turned towards the wall. Even Razumikhin smarted. ‘I see, brother,’ he said after a minute, ‘that I’ve made an idiot of myself again. Thought I might distract you with some small talk, but all I seem to have done is spoil your mood.’ ‘Was it you I couldn’t recognize when I was raving?’ asked Raskolnikov, who had also been silent for a minute or so and was still looking away. ‘Me, and it drove you into a frenzy, especially when I brought Zametov round once.’ ‘Zametov? . . . The head clerk? . . . What for?’ Raskolnikov turned round swiftly, staring straight at Razumikhin. ‘Calm down now . . . No need to get excited. He wanted to get to know you. It was his idea, because we’d been talking about you . . . How else would I know so much about you? He’s a good egg; quite splendid, in fact . . . in his own way, of course. We’ve become friends; see each other almost every day. After all, I live in that neck of the woods now. You didn’t know? I’ve only just moved there. We
visited Laviza together on a couple of occasions. Remember
her, Laviza Ivanovna?’ ‘Did I say anything when I was raving?’ ‘Not half! You were quite beside yourself, sir.’ ‘What was I raving about?’ ‘Come again? What were you raving about? We all know what people rave about . . . But no time to waste, brother – there’s things to do.’ He got up from the chair and grabbed his cap. ‘What was I raving about?’ ‘Still harping on! Scared of spilling the beans, are you?
15Don’t worry: not a word was uttered about the countess.
But as for a certain bulldog, and earrings, and chains of some kind, and Krestovsky Island, and a certain caretaker, and Nikodim Fomich, and Ilya Petrovich, assistant to the district superintendent – plenty was said about those. Not to mention, my dear sir, the quite exceptional interest you showed in your own sock! “Give it to me!” you kept whining. “Give it to me!” Zametov himself searched high and low for your socks and passed you that trash in his very own, bejewelled, perfume-washed hands. Only then did you calm down, clutching it all day and all night; we couldn’t get it off you. You must still have it all under your blanket somewhere. Then you started asking for some trouser ends – you were even in tears about it! What trouser ends, we asked, but we couldn’t make head or tail of your answer . . .
Well, no time to waste! Here’s thirty-five roubles. I’m taking ten and I’ll be back in a couple of hours to report on how I spent them. In the meantime I’ll let Zosimov know, although he should’ve been here ages ago anyway – it’s gone eleven. As for you, Nastyenka, look in more often while I’m gone, should the gentleman desire a drink or anything else . . . As for Pashenka, I’ll speak to her myself right now. Goodbye!’
‘Pashenka, he calls her! The sly mug!’ said Nastasya as he walked out; then she opened the door to catch what they were saying, but she couldn’t bear the suspense and ran downstairs. She was simply dying to know what he was saying to the landlady; and besides, it was obvious that Razumikhin had completely bewitched her.
Barely had she closed the door behind her when the patient threw off his blanket and, like a madman, leapt out of his bed. He’d been waiting for them to leave with a burning, convulsive impatience, so that he could get the thing done immediately. But what thing? He seemed to have forgotten, now of all times, as if on purpose. ‘Lord!
Just tell me this: do they already know everything or don’t they? What if they do and they’re just pretending, just teasing me while I’m lying here, before suddenly walking in and saying they’ve known about it all along and they were just . . . ? What is it I have to do? There, I’ve forgotten, as if on purpose; suddenly forgotten, remembered and forgotten!’ He was standing in the middle of the room and looking around in an agony of bewilderment; he went over to the door, opened it, strained his ears; but that wasn’t it.
Suddenly, as if remembering, he rushed over to the corner where there was a hole in the wallpaper, inspected everything, thrust a hand into the hole and rummaged about, but that wasn’t it either. He went over to the stove, opened it and started rummaging in the ash: yes, the scraps of trouser ends and the shredded pocket were lying there just as he’d left them – so no one had looked! Then he remembered the sock Razumikhin had just been talking about. There it was on the couch, under the blanket, but it had got so dusty and filthy since then that Zametov, needless to say, couldn’t have spotted a thing. ‘Ha, Zametov! . . . The police bureau! . . . But why am I being called in to the bureau? Where’s my summons? Ha! . . . I’m mixing everything up: that was then! Then I also
inspected my sock, but now . . . now I’ve been ill. And why did Zametov drop in? Why did Razumikhin bring him here?’ he muttered feebly, sitting back down on the couch. ‘What’s happening to me? Am I still raving or is this all for real?
Real enough, it seems . . . Ah, I’ve remembered: run! Just run, quick, run! Yes . . . but where? And where are my clothes? My boots have gone! Taken away! Hidden! I get it!
Ah, here’s my coat – they missed that! And the money’s on the table, thank God! And here’s the promissory note . . .
I’ll take the money and go, rent another room, they won’t track me down! . . . But what about the address bureau?
They’ll find me! Razumikhin will find me. I should run away completely . . . far away . . . to America and to hell with them! And take the promissory note . . . I’ll find a use for it there. Anything else to take? They think I’m sick! They don’t even know I can walk, heh-heh-heh! . . . I could tell by their eyes they know everything! Get down the stairs, that’s the main thing! But what if they’ve put men on guard, police? What’s this, tea? Look, there’s some beer left too, half a bottle, cold!’ He grabbed the bottle in which there was still enough to fill a glass and drank it in one pleasurable gulp, as though quenching a fire in his chest. But less than a minute later the beer had gone to his head and a light, even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and drew the blanket over himself. His thoughts, sick and random enough already, became more and more muddled, and a light, pleasant sleepiness soon enveloped him. Voluptuously seeking out a place on the pillow with his head, he wrapped himself up tight in the soft quilt, which had now taken the place of his old shredded greatcoat, gave a soft sigh and sank into deep, sound, restorative sleep.
He woke on hearing someone come in, opened his eyes and saw Razumikhin, who had flung the door wide open and was standing on the threshold, wondering whether or
not to go in. Raskolnikov quickly sat up on the couch and looked at him, as though striving to remember something. ‘So you’re awake – well, here I am! Nastasya, bring in the bundle!’ Razumikhin shouted down the stairs. ‘Prepare to receive my full report . . .’ ‘What time is it?’ asked Raskolnikov, anxiously looking around. ‘You slept like a king: it’s evening, must be about six. So you’ve been asleep a good six hours . . .’ ‘God! How could I?’ ‘Nonsense, it’ll do you good! What’s the hurry? No one’s expecting you, are they? Our time’s our own now. Three hours I’ve been waiting; dropped in a couple of times, but you were sleeping. I called on Zosimov twice: not in – that’s all they tell me! Don’t worry, he’ll come! . . . Must be out and about on his own little errands. I moved today, you know, moved for good, with my uncle. I’ve an uncle now, you see . . . Well, no time to waste, damn it! . . . Pass me that bundle, Nastyenka. And now we’ll . . . But tell me, brother, how are you feeling?’ ‘I’m fine. I’m not sick . . . Razumikhin, how long have you been here?’ ‘I told you – I’ve been waiting three hours.’
‘I mean before?’
‘Before what?’ ‘When did you start coming here?’ ‘But I explained all that earlier, or don’t you remember?’ Raskolnikov became pensive. The recent past felt like a dream to him. He couldn’t recall it on his own and fixed Razumikhin with a questioning look. ‘H’m!’ said the latter. ‘He’s forgotten! I thought before that perhaps you still weren’t quite in your . . . But the sleep’s done you good . . . Really, you look a new man. Good on you! Well, no time to waste! It’ll all come back to you now. Have a look at this, dear chap.’
He started untying the bundle, whose contents clearly fascinated him. ‘I can hardly tell you, brother, how much I’ve been wanting to do this. It’s about time you looked the part.
Right, we’ll start at the top. See this little casquette?’ he began, taking from the bundle a fairly decent, if perfectly ordinary, cheap cap. ‘Shall we see if it fits?’ ‘Later, later,’ said Raskolnikov, peevishly waving it away. ‘No chance, Rodya, don’t resist: later will be too late; and anyway I’ll be awake all night worrying – I bought it without measuring, by guess and by God. Perfect!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Fits perfectly! Headgear, brother, is the alpha and omega of a man’s attire, his calling card, if you like. Tolstyakov, a mate of mine, has to remove his lid every time he enters a public place, while everyone else is standing around in hats and caps. Everybody thinks it’s the slave in him, but he’s just ashamed of the basket on his head: he’s far too bashful, that man! So, Nastyenka, I present to you two types of headgear: this old 16 Palmerston’(he reached into the corner for Raskolnikov’s mangled round hat, which for some reason he called a Palmerston) ‘or this intricate piece of work? How much do you think I paid, Rodya? Nastasyushka?’ he turned to her, getting no response from Raskolnikov. ‘Maybe twenty copecks,’ Nastasya replied. ‘You silly girl!’ he shouted, taking offence. ‘Even you would fetch more than twenty copecks nowadays! Eighty copecks! And even then only because it’s worn. It comes with a guarantee, mind you: wear this one out and you’ll get another for free next year, by heaven! And now, sir, for the United American States, as we used to call them at school. Be warned – I’m proud of them!’ – and he laid out before Raskolnikov a pair of grey summer trousers made of a light woollen material. ‘No holes, no stains, perfectly acceptable, albeit a bit worn. Likewise the waistcoat, all
one colour, as fashion dictates. And there’s nothing wrong with second-hand: it’s softer, smoother . . . You see, Rodya, in order to make your way in the world it’s enough, in my opinion, to observe the season at all times: don’t buy asparagus in January and you’ll save yourself a few roubles.
Well, the same principle applies here. Now it’s summer, so I’ve made a summer purchase; autumn calls for something warmer, I believe, so you’ll have to throw them out anyway . . . especially as all this will have fallen to pieces by then, if not from a natural increase in splendour, then from internal contradictions. Well, have a guess! How much? Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And with the same guarantee: wear these out and get others for free next year. At Fedyayev’s the terms are always the same: pay once and you’ll never pay again, ’cause you’ll never want to go back. And now, sir, the boots – well? You can see they’re worn, but they’ll do for a month or two, seeing as it’s foreign handiwork and foreign goods: a secretary at the British embassy flogged them at the flea market last week; he’d only worn them six days, but he needed the cash. Price: one rouble fifty copecks. A good deal?’ ‘What if they don’t fit?’ Nastasya remarked. ‘Don’t fit! So what’s this?’ – and he pulled from his pocket one of Raskolnikov’s old, tough boots, all torn and caked in dirt. ‘I went well-prepared and they used this monstrosity to establish the size. No effort spared. As for linen, your landlady and I cut a deal there. Take these for starters: three shirts – made of sackcloth, I admit, but with fashionable collars . . . To sum up, then: peaked cap eighty copecks, other garments two roubles twenty-five, making three roubles five copecks; one rouble fifty for the boots – because they’re truly outstanding – making four roubles fifty-five copecks; add five roubles for all the linen – it was cheaper in bulk – and you have a grand total of nine roubles fifty-five copecks precisely. Forty-five copecks change, all in coppers. Do take them, sir. And thus, dear
Rodya, your wardrobe is complete, because in my view your coat is not merely still serviceable, it even has a particular nobility about it: that’s what comes of ordering 17 from Charmeur’s!Socks and everything else I leave to you. We still have twenty-five roubles, and don’t you worry about Pashenka and paying for the room. As I said, you’ve got credit on tap. And now, brother, allow me to change your linen for you, because it wouldn’t surprise me if the only place where your illness still lingers is your shirt . . .’ ‘Leave me alone! Don’t!’ Raskolnikov remonstrated, repelled by the strained, bantering tone of Razumikhin’s communiqué about his purchases . . . ‘Nothing doing, brother. I mean, what have I been wearing out my soles for?’ Razumikhin insisted. ‘Nastasyushka, don’t be shy and give us a hand. That’s it!’ – and for all Raskolnikov’s resistance, he changed his linen.
Raskolnikov fell back onto the pillows and said not a word for a whole two minutes. ‘How long will they pester me?’ he thought. ‘And where did you find the money for all this?’ he asked at long last, staring at the wall. ‘The money? I’ll be damned! It’s your own. Some messenger came by earlier, from Vakhrushin, sent by your mama; or have you forgotten that too?’ ‘I remember now . . . ,’ said Raskolnikov, after a period of long, sullen reflection. Razumikhin looked at him uneasily, frowning.
The door opened and in walked a tall, thickset man, who also struck Raskolnikov as somehow familiar. ‘Zosimov! At long last!’ cried Razumikhin with joy.
