V
Here was a gentleman whose youth was behind him, with a finicky, imposing air and a wary, querulous face, who began by pausing in the doorway and looking around in brazen astonishment, as if to ask: ‘Where on earth have I ended up?’ With a great show of mistrust and even alarm – almost as if he felt affronted – he surveyed Raskolnikov’s poky, low-ceilinged ‘ship’s cabin’. With the same astonishment, he shifted his gaze to Raskolnikov himself, who, undressed, unkempt and unwashed, was lying on his wretched, filthy couch and returning his motionless scrutiny. Then, with the same deliberation, he set about scrutinizing the dishevelled, unshaven and uncombed person of Razumikhin, who stared straight back at him with quizzical insolence, not moving an inch. This tense silence lasted a minute or so, until eventually, as was only to be expected, there was a subtle change of mood. Presumably realizing – on the basis of evidence that could hardly be ignored – that here, in this ‘ship’s cabin’, an attitude of exaggerated severity would get him nowhere, the gentleman softened somewhat and politely, if still severely, turned to Zosimov, clearly enunciating every syllable of his question: ‘Mr Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, the student or former student?’ Zosimov slowly stirred and might even have replied, had not Razumikhin, whose opinion nobody was seeking, leapt in first: ‘There he is, lying on the couch!! What do you want?’ The familiar tone of this ‘What do you want?’ rocked the finicky gentleman back on his heels. He was even on the verge of turning in Razumikhin’s direction, but managed to
stop himself just in time and hurriedly turned back towards Zosimov. ‘That’s Raskolnikov!’ mumbled Zosimov, nodding at the patient and then yawning; as he did so, he opened his mouth extraordinarily wide, keeping it in that position for an extraordinarily long time. Then he slowly reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, took out the most enormous bulging gold watch, lifted the lid, took a glance and just as slowly, just as lazily, put it back again.
All this time Raskolnikov had lain there in silence, on his back, gazing obstinately, if unthinkingly, at the new gentleman. His face, which he had now turned away from the intriguing flower on the wallpaper, was exceptionally pale and expressed extraordinary suffering, as though he’d just undergone an excruciating operation or had just been released from torture. But little by little the new gentleman began to arouse ever greater interest in him, then bewilderment, then mistrust, and even something approaching fear. So when Zosimov pointed at him and said, ‘That’s Raskolnikov,’ he all but leapt up in his bed, and in a voice that was almost defiant, if halting and weak, he said: ‘Yes! I’m Raskolnikov! What do you want?’ The visitor looked at him attentively and uttered, self- importantly: ‘Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin. I trust that my name is not entirely unknown to you.’ But Raskolnikov, who had been expecting something else entirely, looked at him dully and pensively and said nothing in reply, as if he really were hearing the name Pyotr Petrovich for the first time. ‘I beg your pardon? You mean no one has told you anything?’ asked Pyotr Petrovich, buckling slightly.
In reply, Raskolnikov slowly sank back onto his pillow, put his hands beneath his head and began staring at the ceiling. Luzhin could not hide his distress. Zosimov and
Razumikhin set about inspecting him with still greater curiosity, until in the end he became visibly embarrassed. ‘I had assumed and expected,’ he began in a mumble, ‘that the letter dispatched a good ten days ago now, in fact almost two weeks ago . . .’ ‘Listen, there’s really no need for you to stand by the door,’ Razumikhin suddenly broke in. ‘If you’ve got something to say, then have a seat – you and Nastasya look squashed over there. Nastasyushka, budge over and let him through! Come over here, there’s a chair for you! Go on, wriggle through!’ He moved his chair back from the table, freed up some space between the table and his knees, and waited in a rather strained pose for the visitor to ‘wriggle through’ the small gap. He had chosen his moment in such a way that refusal was out of the question, and the visitor hastily stumbled through the narrow space. Reaching the chair, he sat down and glanced suspiciously at Razumikhin. ‘No need to be embarrassed,’ blurted the latter. ‘Rodya’s been sick for five days now and raving for three, but he’s come round and he’s even got his appetite back. This chap here is his doctor, he’s just examined him, while I’m a friend of Rodya’s, also an ex-student, and now here I am nursing him. So feel free to ignore us, don’t be shy, and tell us what you’re after.’ ‘I thank you. But will I not disturb the patient with my presence and conversation?’ asked Pyotr Petrovich, turning to Zosimov. ‘No, no,’ mumbled Zosimov, ‘you might even take his mind off things’ – then gave another yawn. ‘Oh, he came to this morning!’ continued Razumikhin, whose familiar tone sounded so artlessly sincere that Pyotr Petrovich took stock and even cheered up a bit, perhaps also because this insolent tramp had at last got round to
introducing himself as a student. ‘Your mama . . . ,’ began Luzhin.
‘H’m!’ grunted Razumikhin loudly. Luzhin looked at him
inquiringly.
‘Oh nothing, nothing, ignore me . . .’ Luzhin shrugged. ‘... Your mama, during the period while I was still present with her, began writing you a letter. On arriving here, I deliberately allowed several days to pass before coming to see you, in order to be entirely sure that you had received all the requisite information; but now, to my astonishment . . .’ ‘I know, I know!’ Raskolnikov suddenly said, anger bursting from his face. ‘And that’s you? The fiancé? Well, I know! Enough said!’ Pyotr Petrovich was thoroughly offended, but bit his tongue. He was desperately trying to grasp the meaning of it all. The silence lasted for about a minute.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov, having half-turned in his direction to reply, suddenly set about studying him again with a particular curiosity, as if he hadn’t finished doing so before or had been struck by something new in him: he even lifted himself up off his pillow for the purpose. Yes, there really did seem to be something striking about Pyotr Petrovich’s general appearance, or more precisely, something that seemed to justify the title of ‘fiancé’, which he had just been so unceremoniously awarded. To begin with, it was evident, and even all too noticeable, that Pyotr Petrovich had hastened to exploit every opportunity offered by several days in the capital to array and groom himself in readiness for his betrothed, though, of course, one could hardly blame him. Even his own, perhaps excessively smug awareness of his gratifying change for the better might have been forgiven in the circumstances, for Pyotr Petrovich was on the path to the altar. Everything he wore was fresh from the tailor’s, and it was all quite splendid, but for one thing – it was all too new and betrayed all too clearly its unmistakable purpose. Even his foppish, brand-
new top hat attested to this purpose: there was something far too reverent and cautious in the way Pyotr Petrovich fingered it. Even his charming pair of genuine lilac Jouvin 21 glovesattested to the same, if only because such gloves were not for wearing, but for carrying in one’s hands for show. Pyotr Petrovich’s clothes, meanwhile, were dominated by light and youthful shades. He wore a smart summer jacket in beige, light-coloured summery trousers with matching waistcoat, newly purchased fine linen, a tie of the very lightest cambric with pink stripes, and best of all, this actually suited Pyotr Petrovich – not to mention the fact that his very fresh, even handsome face looked younger than his forty-five years. His dark whiskers cast pleasant shadows on both sides, like two mutton chops, and thickened ever so nicely around his shiny, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, only barely touched with grey, all combed and curled at the barber’s, did not thereby look in any way ridiculous or foolish, as always seems to happen with curled hair, which gives the face an inescapable resemblance to a German making his way up the aisle. If there really was anything genuinely unpleasant and repellent about this fairly handsome and respectable physiognomy, the cause lay elsewhere. After subjecting Mr Luzhin to unceremonious scrutiny, Raskolnikov flashed a venomous smile, sank back once more onto his pillow and resumed his inspection of the ceiling.
Mr Luzhin gritted his teeth, having apparently decided to turn a blind eye, for the time being, to these various eccentricities. ‘I am most terribly, terribly sorry to find you in such a plight,’ he began once more, breaking the silence with some difficulty. ‘Had I but known of your infirmity, I would have called earlier. Alas, you know, I’m rushed off my feet! I have, furthermore, a terribly important case in the Senate in my legal capacity. And that’s without even mentioning
those concerns about which you, too, can guess. I am expecting your dear family – your mama and sister – at any moment . . .’ Raskolnikov stirred and was on the verge of saying something; his face expressed a certain agitation. Pyotr Petrovich paused and waited, but when nothing followed he continued: ‘... at any moment. I have found them an apartment in
the first instance . . .’ ‘Where?’ asked Raskolnikov, weakly. ‘Exceedingly close by, Bakaleyev’s house . . .’ ‘That’s on Voznesensky,’ Razumikhin broke in. ‘Two floors of rented rooms. Yushin, the merchant, lets them out.
I’ve been there.’ ‘That’s right, sir . . .’ ‘An unbelievably sordid place: filthy, stinking and generally disreputable; all sorts of things have happened there and you never know who you might meet! I went there too, once, on some disgraceful business or other. It’s cheap, mind.’ ‘Naturally I was unable to gather so much intelligence, being new here myself,’ came Pyotr Petrovich’s prickly riposte, ‘but they are two perfectly, perfectly clean little rooms, and since this is only for a terribly brief period of time . . . I have already found our real – I mean, future – lodgings,’ he continued, addressing Raskolnikov, ‘which are being done up as we speak. For the time being I myself have to make do in cramped lodgings a stone’s throw from here, at Mrs Lippewechsel’s, in the apartment of a young friend of mine, Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov. It was he who suggested Bakaleyev’s house to me . . .’ ‘Lebezyatnikov?’ drawled Raskolnikov, as if reminded of something. ‘Yes, Andrei Semyonych Lebezyatnikov, works in one of the ministries. Are you acquainted?’ ‘Er . . . no . . . ,’ replied Raskolnikov.
‘I beg your pardon. Your question gave me the impression you were. I was once his guardian . . . A very nice young man . . . and well-informed . . . I like meeting the young: there’s no better way of keeping up to date,’ said Pyotr Petrovich, casting a hopeful glance around the assembled company. ‘In what sense exactly?’ asked Razumikhin. ‘The most serious. The very heart of the matter, as it were,’ replied Pyotr Petrovich, as if glad to be asked. ‘You see, I haven’t visited Petersburg for a full ten years. All these novelties of ours, reforms, ideas – we haven’t remained untouched by them in the provinces either; but in order to have a clearer and more complete view of things, one has to be in Petersburg. So, sir, my opinion is this: that it is by observing our young generations that one notices and learns the most. And I’ll admit: I was pleased . . .’ ‘By what exactly?’ ‘Your question is a very broad one. I may be mistaken, but I seem to find greater clarity of vision, more criticism,
as it were; more doers . . .’ ‘True enough,’ muttered Zosimov. ‘You’re lying. There are no doers,’ Razumikhin leapt in. ‘Doers don’t just fall from the sky – it takes effort. And we’ve got used to not doing anything for nigh on two hundred years . . . There may be ideas in the air, I’ll grant you that,’ he said, turning to Pyotr Petrovich, ‘and a desire to do good, however childish; and there’s even some honesty about, despite the fact that nowadays we’re up to our necks in swindlers, but there’s still no sign of any doers! You’d spot them a mile off.’ ‘I simply cannot agree with you,’ objected Pyotr Petrovich, with evident delight. ‘Naturally there are excesses, irregularities, but one must also be charitable: the excesses are testimony to a fervour for getting things done and to the irregularities by which that task is surrounded. Little has been done, you might say – but there
has been little time to do it in. I say nothing about the means. My own personal view, if you please, is that something has, in fact, been done: the spread of new, useful thoughts, the spread of certain new, useful literary works instead of the previous dreaminess and romanticism; literature is acquiring a riper hue; many pernicious prejudices are being stamped out and ridiculed . . . In short, we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and this, to my mind, shows that something really is being done . . .’ ‘He knows his lines!’ said Raskolnikov suddenly. ‘I’m sorry?’ asked Pyotr Petrovich, unsure of what had been said. He received no reply. ‘All perfectly reasonable,’ Zosimov hastened to put in. ‘Isn’t it, though?’ Pyotr Petrovich went on, glancing with satisfaction at Zosimov. ‘Wouldn’t you agree,’ he continued, addressing Razumikhin, but with a new, triumphant note of superiority, to the point that he very nearly added ‘young man’, ‘that prosperity, or progress, as it is now called, does exist, at least in the name of science and economic truth . .
. ?’ ‘A cliché!’ ‘No, not a cliché, sir! If hitherto, for example, I have been told to “love my neighbour” and I have done so, then what was the result?’ Pyotr Petrovich continued, perhaps a little too hastily. ‘The result was that I ripped my sheepskin in two, shared it with my neighbour and we both ended up half-naked, according to the Russian proverb, “Go after 22several hares at once and you won’t reach a single one.”
But science says: love yourself before loving anyone else, for everything in this world is founded on self-interest. Love yourself and your affairs will take care of themselves, and your coat will remain in one piece. Economic truth adds to this that the more people there are in society whose private affairs are well arranged, and the more sheepskins, as it
were, that remain in one piece, the firmer are society’s foundations and the better it will arrange its common task.
Consequently, it is precisely by profiting myself and no one else that I thereby profit everyone, as it were, and enable my neighbour to receive something more than a ripped coat, and not by way of private, isolated acts of charity, as in the past, but as a result of universal prosperity. A simple thought, but one which has taken a regrettably long time to occur, obscured by enthusiasm and dreaminess, though it would hardly seem beyond the wit of man to guess . . .’ ‘I’m sorry, but I’m no great wit myself,’ Razumikhin abruptly interrupted, ‘so let’s stop there. I piped up for a reason: for three years now I’ve been listening to all this talk and self-amusement, all these endless clichés, one after the other, over and over again, and I’m so damned sick of them that I blush to hear other people, never mind me, trotting them out. Naturally, you were desperate to flaunt your knowledge, and that can be easily forgiven on first acquaintance – I don’t judge you for it. All I was trying to do was find out what kind of a man you are, because recently, you see, that “common task” has attracted such a motley crew of operators, ruining whatever they touch for their personal gain, that the whole thing stinks. Enough said, sir!’ ‘My good sir,’ Mr Luzhin began, positively quivering with self-worth, ‘surely you are not suggesting, so very unceremoniously, that I too . . . ?’ ‘Come come . . . How could I? . . . Enough said, sir!’ snapped Razumikhin, before turning sharply towards Zosimov to resume their earlier conversation.
Pyotr Petrovich had the good sense to believe these words without hesitation. All the same, he had made up his mind to leave within the next two minutes. ‘I trust that our newly initiated acquaintance,’ he addressed Raskolnikov, ‘will, after your recovery and in the
light of the circumstances known to you, grow stronger still . . . Above all, I wish you good health . . .’ Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovich began getting up from his chair. ‘The murderer must have been one of her pawners!’ Zosimov asserted. ‘Must have been!’ Razumikhin echoed. ‘Porfiry gives nothing away, but we know he’s interrogating the pawners . . .’ ‘Interrogating the pawners?’ Raskolnikov asked loudly.
‘Yes, and?’
‘Nothing.’ ‘How does he find them?’ asked Zosimov. ‘Kokh put him on to some of them. The names of others were written on the paper their items were wrapped in, and some just came along themselves when they heard . . .’ ‘What a crafty, experienced little scoundrel! So daring!
So bold!’ ‘That’s exactly what he isn’t!’ Razumikhin interrupted. ‘And that’s exactly what trips you all up. He’s neither crafty nor experienced, and I’ll bet you this was his first time!
Assume some calculating, crafty little scoundrel, and it hardly seems credible. Assume someone inexperienced and it seems like only chance could have saved him from disaster, and chance can do anything, can it not? He probably didn’t anticipate a single obstacle! Just look how he went about it – grabbing ten- or twenty-rouble items, stuffing his pockets with them, rummaging about in the old woman’s box, among the rags – and meanwhile, over in the chest of drawers, in a box in the top drawer, they found one and a half thousand in ready cash, excluding notes! He didn’t even know how to rob – only to kill! His first time, I tell you, his first time. He lost his nerve! It was chance, not design, that saved him!’ ‘This has to do with the recent murder of that civil servant’s old widow, I assume,’ Pyotr Petrovich put in,
addressing Zosimov. He was already on his feet, hat and gloves in hand, but he didn’t want to leave without making a few more clever remarks. He was clearly anxious to make a favourable impression, and vanity prevailed over good
sense. ‘So you’ve heard?’ ‘How could I not, living so close . . . ?’ ‘Do you know the details?’ ‘I cannot say, but what concerns me here is something else, the problem in the round, as it were. Leaving aside the fact that crime among the lower classes has been on the rise during the last five years or so, leaving aside the ubiquitous and never-ending robberies and fires, what I find strangest of all is the fact that crime among the upper classes is on the rise in just the same way and, as it were, in parallel. First you hear that a former student robbed a mail coach on the high road; next, that people at the very forefront of society are counterfeiting banknotes; then, in Moscow, an entire gang is caught forging tickets for the latest lottery – with a lecturer in world history among the ringleaders; while abroad, one of our diplomatic secretaries 23 is murderedfor financial reasons that remain obscure . . .
And now, if this old moneylender has been murdered by one of her pawners, then he, too, must be a member of higher society – for peasants do not pawn their gold – so how can we explain this laxity, as it were, of the civilized part of our society?’ ‘All these economic changes . . . ,’ responded Zosimov. ‘How can we explain it?’ asked Razumikhin, seizing on his words. ‘I’ll tell you how: by our inveterate shortage of
doers.’ ‘I don’t follow, sir.’ ‘Well, what did that lecturer of yours in Moscow have to say for himself when he was asked why he forged tickets: “Everyone’s getting rich one way or another, so I wanted to
make a quick fortune myself.” I’ve forgotten his exact words, but that was the gist: money for nothing, quick, without breaking sweat! We’re used to having everything laid on for us, to our leading-strings, to our food being 24 chewed for us. But when the great hour struck,everyone showed their true colours . . .’ ‘But what about morality? And, as it were, rules . . . ?’ ‘Why this great fuss?’ Raskolnikov suddenly broke in.
‘That was your theory in action!’ ‘What do you mean, my theory?’ ‘Take what you were preaching just now to its conclusions, and bumping people off is perfectly acceptable
. . .’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ cried Luzhin. ‘No, that’s wrong!’ Zosimov put in.
Raskolnikov lay pale-faced, his upper lip twitching, breathing heavily. ‘One must observe moderation in all things,’ continued Luzhin, superciliously. ‘The economic idea is hardly an invitation to murder, and it is enough to assume . . .’ ‘So is it true that you,’ Raskolnikov cut in again, in a voice trembling with anger and reverberating with a kind of injured joy, ‘is it true that you told your intended . . . the moment you received her consent . . . that what pleased you most of all . . . was her beggarly condition . . . because there is much to be said for taking a wife out of beggary, the better to rule over her later . . . and to reproach her with the favour you bestow?’ ‘My good sir!’ cried Luzhin, with anger and irritation, all flushed and flustered. ‘My good sir! . . . What a way to twist my words! Forgive me, but I must make it clear to you that the rumours that have come to your attention, or rather, that have been brought to your attention, are devoid of any sound foundation, and I . . . have an inkling as to who . . . in a word . . . this dart . . . in a word, your mama . . . She
struck me even before as having, for all her outstanding qualities, a slightly over-enthusiastic and romantic cast of mind . . . But still, I was a million miles from presuming that she might apprehend and present the matter in a light so distorted by fantasy . . . And finally . . . finally . . .’ ‘Well, do you know what?’ cried Raskolnikov, propping himself up on the pillow and fixing him with piercing, flashing eyes. ‘Do you know what?’ ‘What, sir?’ Luzhin paused, waiting with an offended and defiant air. The silence lasted a few seconds. ‘If you dare utter . . . another word, ever again . . . about my mother . . . I’ll send you flying down the stairs!’ ‘What’s wrong with you?’ shouted Razumikhin. ‘So that’s how it is!’ said Luzhin, turning pale and biting his lip. ‘Now listen to me, sir,’ he began slowly and deliberately, restraining himself as best he could, but still gasping for breath. ‘I discerned your animosity the moment I walked in, but I remained here on purpose, so as to find out more. There is much that I might have forgiven a sick man and a relative, but you . . . now . . . never, sir . . .’
‘I’m not sick!’ cried Raskolnikov.
‘All the more reason . . .’ ‘Clear off, damn you!’ But Luzhin, without finishing what he wanted to say, was already wriggling his way out between the table and the chair; and this time, Razumikhin got up to let him through.
Without glancing at anyone or even nodding in the direction of Zosimov, who had long been nodding at him to leave the sick man in peace, Luzhin went out, taking care to raise his hat to the level of his shoulder as he ducked beneath the door-frame. Even the curve of his back seemed to suggest that he was bearing away with him some deadly insult. ‘How could you? Really, how could you?’ Razumikhin asked in bewilderment, shaking his head.
‘Leave me alone, all of you!’ Raskolnikov cried in sheer frenzy. ‘Can’t you just leave me alone and stop tormenting me! I’m not scared of you! I’m not scared of anyone now, anyone! Get away from me! I want to be alone! Alone!
Alone!’ ‘Let’s go!’ said Zosimov, nodding to Razumikhin. ‘We can hardly leave him like this, for heaven’s sake.’ ‘Let’s go!’ Zosimov insisted and walked out. Razumikhin thought for a moment, then ran out after him. ‘It could have been even worse if we hadn’t obeyed him,’ said Zosimov, once they were out on the stairs. ‘We mustn’t
irritate him . . .’ ‘What’s wrong with him?’ ‘If only he could be given a beneficial shock of some kind . . . that would do it! He seemed to have picked up, earlier on . . . You know, there’s something on his mind! Something immovable, something oppressing him . . . That’s what scares me. Yes, that’s it!’ ‘Perhaps it’s this gentleman, this Pyotr Petrovich! It was clear from the conversation that he’s marrying his sister and that Rodya received a letter about it just before he got ill . . .’ ‘Yes, the devil himself must have brought him here now.
He may have spoiled the whole thing. By the way, did you notice how indifferent he is to everything? You can’t get a word out of him, with one exception that completely unhinges him: that murder . . .’ ‘Yes, yes!’ Razumikhin agreed. ‘Too right I did! It interests him, frightens him. He got a fright the same day he fell ill, in the bureau, with the district superintendent; even fainted.’ ‘Tell me more this evening, then I’ll tell you something.
He interests me, he really does! I’ll drop by in half an hour to check up on him . . . But it’s not an inflammation . . .’ ‘Thanks! In the meantime I’ll be waiting at Pashenka’s, keeping an eye on things through Nastasya . . .’
Raskolnikov, left alone, shot an impatient, pained glance at Nastasya; but she was in no hurry to leave. ‘P’haps you’ll have some tea now?’ she asked. ‘Later! I want to sleep! Leave me . . .’ With a violent jerk, he turned to face the wall; Nastasya went out.
