VII
In the middle of the street stood a fancy, grand carriage drawn by a pair of steaming grey horses; the carriage was empty and the coachman had got down from the box and was standing beside it; the horses were being held by the bridle. There was a large throng of people, with police officers at the front. One was holding a lantern with which, bending down, he was illuminating something on the road, right next to the wheels. Everyone was speaking, shouting, gasping; the coachman seemed bewildered and every so
often would say: ‘A terrible sin! Lord, what a sin!’ Raskolnikov squeezed his way through as best he could, and finally caught sight of the object of all this fuss and curiosity. On the ground lay a man, to all appearances unconscious, who’d just been trampled by horses; he was very shabbily – but ‘nobly’ – dressed and covered in blood, which streamed from his face and his head. His face was all battered, flayed, mangled. He’d been trampled badly and no mistake. ‘Fathers!’ the coachman wailed. ‘What’s a man to do? If I’d been tearing along or I hadn’t yelled at him, fair enough, but I was going along nice and steady. Everyone saw: with me, what you see is what you get. A drunk can’t 36 hold a candle– we all know that! I can see him crossing the street, wobbling along, nearly toppling over – I yell at him once, yell at him twice, and again, and pull up the horses; and he goes and falls right under them! Either he meant it or he’s properly tight . . . The horses are only young, they scare easy; they tugged, he screamed, they tugged harder . . . and look!’
‘He’s telling it like it was!’ came the voice of some witness in the crowd. ‘He yelled at him all right – three times,’ echoed another. ‘Three, three – we all heard!’ shouted a third.
The coachman, though, was not really so very despondent or frightened. The carriage evidently had a wealthy and important owner waiting for it somewhere – a problem which the police officers, needless to say, had not neglected. The trampled man would need to be taken to the police station and the hospital. No one knew his name.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed through and leant forward even closer. All of a sudden the lantern lit up the face of the unfortunate man: he recognized him. ‘I know him! I know him!’ he shouted, pushing right through to the front. ‘He’s a civil servant, retired, a titular counsellor, Marmeladov! He lives around here, very close, Kozel’s house . . . A doctor, quick! I’ll pay, look!’ He took the money out of his pocket and showed it to a policeman.
He was extraordinarily agitated.
The police officers were pleased to learn who the trampled man was. Raskolnikov named himself, too, gave his address and did everything in his power – as if this were his own father – to persuade them to move the unconscious Marmeladov to the latter’s apartment. ‘Just here, three buildings along,’ he chivvied them. ‘The house belongs to Kozel, a German, a rich one . . . He must be drunk, expect he was trying to get home. I know him . . .
He’s a drunkard . . . He’s got a family there, wife, children, a daughter. Why drag him all the way to the hospital – there’s bound to be a doctor right here in his building! I’ll pay for it! . . . At least he’ll have his family looking after him and he’ll get help straight away – he’d die before he ever got to the hospital . . .’ He even managed to slip one of them a note; but it was a perfectly straightforward and lawful business, and anyway, help was closer at hand here. The trampled man was lifted
up and carried off; volunteers were quickly found. Kozel’s house was some thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully supporting the head and pointing the way. ‘Over here! Over here! We have to carry him up the stairs head first; turn round . . . that’s it! I’ll pay for it, I’ll thank you,’ he muttered.
Katerina Ivanovna was pacing her little room, as she always did whenever she had a free moment, from the window to the stove and back again, her arms tightly folded over her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Recently she’d taken to speaking more and more often with her elder girl, ten-year-old Polenka, who, ignorant though she still was of many things, understood perfectly well that her mother needed her, so she always followed her with her big clever eyes and did all she could to seem all- comprehending. Polenka was undressing her little brother, who’d been poorly since the morning, before putting him to bed. While waiting for her to change his shirt, which was to be washed that same night, the boy sat on the chair, all serious and silent, straight-backed and stock-still, extending his little legs with his heels thrust forward and his toes apart. He listened with pouted lips and bulging eyes to what Mummy was telling his sister and didn’t move a muscle, just as clever little boys are supposed to sit when being prepared for bed. A girl even smaller than him, wearing the shabbiest rags, was standing by the screen and waiting her turn. The door to the stairs was open, so as to offer at least some relief from the waves of tobacco smoke that blew in from the other rooms and kept provoking long and excruciating coughing fits in the poor consumptive.
Katerina Ivanovna seemed even thinner than a week ago and the red blotches on her cheeks burned even brighter than before. ‘Polenka, you just wouldn’t believe, you can’t even imagine,’ she was saying as she walked up and down the room, ‘how fun and grand life was in Daddy’s house and
how this drunkard ruined me and will ruin you all! Papa was a state counsellor and very nearly governor; one more step and he was there, so everyone paid him visits, saying: “We already think of you like that, Ivan Mikhailych, as our governor!” When I . . . cuh . . . when I . . . cuh-cuh-cuh . . . oh, damn this life!’ she shrieked, coughing up phlegm and clutching her chest. ‘When I . . . ach, when at the last ball . . . at the house of the marshal of the nobility . . . when I was spotted by Princess Bezzemelnaya – who later gave me her blessing when I was about to marry your papa, Polya – she immediately asked: “Isn’t that the nice girl who danced the pas de châle at the leaving ball?” . . . (That rip needs sewing; you’d better find a needle and darn it right now, the way I taught you, otherwise tomorrow . . . cuh! tomorrow . . . cuh-cuh-cuh! . . . it’ll be even bigger!)’ she shouted, her voice breaking. ‘At the time, Prince 37 Shchegolskoy, akammerjunker,had only just arrived from Petersburg . . . he danced a mazurka with me and wanted to visit me the very next day to propose; but I thanked him myself in the most flattering terms and said that my heart had long belonged to another. That other was your father, Polya. Daddy was terribly angry . . . Is the water ready? Well, give me the shirt, then. What about the stockings? . . . Lida,’ she turned to her little daughter, ‘you sleep as you are for tonight, without a shirt; you’ll manage . . . and lay your stockings out . . . I’ll wash them, too . . .
What’s keeping that tramp, that drunkard? He’s worn his shirt to shreds, like some old cloth . . . If I wash it all now I won’t have to break my back two nights running! Dear God! Cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh! Again! What’s this?’ she shrieked, looking over towards the crowd on the landing and the people forcing their way into her room, bearing some kind of burden. ‘What’s this? What are they carrying? Dear God!’
‘Where should we put him?’ asked a police officer, looking around once Marmeladov, blood-stained and unconscious, had been lugged into the room. ‘The couch! Straight on the couch, head this way,’ Raskolnikov pointed. ‘Trampled in the street! Drunk!’ someone yelled from the landing.
Katerina Ivanovna stood white-faced, struggling to breathe. The children were petrified. Little Lidochka shrieked, ran over to Polenka, hugged her and began shaking all over.
After laying out Marmeladov, Raskolnikov rushed over to Katerina Ivanovna: ‘Calm down, for the love of God, and don’t be scared!’ he said in a rush. ‘He was crossing the street, got trampled by a carriage. Don’t worry, he’ll come to . . . I told them to bring him here . . . I’ve been here before, remember . . .
He’ll come to. I’ll pay!’ ‘Now he’s done it!’ Katerina Ivanovna shrieked in despair, rushing over to her husband.
Raskolnikov soon realized that this was not the type of woman to faint on the spot. In a flash a pillow appeared beneath the head of the unfortunate man, something which no one had even thought of till then. Katerina Ivanovna set about undressing him and examining him, kept busy and kept her head, forgetting about herself, biting her quivering lips and suppressing the cries ready to burst from her chest.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov had persuaded someone to run off for the doctor. The doctor, as it happened, lived in the next house but one. ‘I’ve sent for the doctor,’ he kept saying to Katerina Ivanovna. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay. Got any water? . . . And bring a napkin, a towel, something, quick. Who knows how bad his injuries are? . . . He’s injured, not killed, rest assured of that . . . Let’s see what the doctor says!’
Katerina Ivanovna rushed over to the window; there, on a battered chair in the corner, stood a large earthenware basin filled with water, all ready for the nocturnal scrubbing of her children’s and husband’s clothes. Katerina Ivanovna performed this task herself twice a week, and sometimes even more often than that, for they’d got to the point of having almost no change of linen at all, with only one item of each type per family member, and Katerina Ivanovna couldn’t stand dirt and would sooner slave away, in pain and exhaustion, when everyone was asleep, so that by morning the washing would have dried on a cord stretched across the room, than see filth in her home. At Raskolnikov’s request she picked up the bowl and was about to bring it over, but nearly fell under her burden. But he’d already found a towel, dipped it in water and begun cleaning Marmeladov’s blood-soaked face. Katerina Ivanovna stood beside them, drawing painful breaths and clutching her chest. She herself was in need of help. It began to dawn on Raskolnikov that having the trampled man brought here may have been a mistake. The policeman was also bewildered. ‘Polya!’ shouted Katerina Ivanovna. ‘Run to Sonya, quick.
If she’s not in, tell them anyway that Father’s been trampled by horses and she should come over immediately . . . when she returns. Quick, Polya! Here, cover yourself with a shawl!’ ‘Run for your life, thithter!’ the boy suddenly shouted from the chair and, having done so, relapsed into silence, sitting straight-backed, eyes wide open, his heels thrust forward and his toes apart.
By now, the room had filled to bursting. The police officers had all left apart from one, who’d stayed behind for a while and was trying to drive the spectators who’d come in from the stairs back out again. At the same time, nearly all Mrs Lippewechsel’s tenants were spilling out from the inner rooms. At first they seemed content merely to crowd
the doorway, then they poured into the room itself. Katerina Ivanovna was beside herself. ‘At least let him die in peace!’ she yelled at the mob. ‘A nice spectacle you’ve found for yourselves! While you smoke! Cuh-cuh-cuh! Where are your hats, I wonder? . . .
Look, there’s one! . . . Out! A dead body deserves some respect!’ Her cough was choking her, but the warning did its job.
The tenants were clearly a little scared of Katerina Ivanovna. One by one they shuffled back towards the door with that strange inner sense of satisfaction that may always be observed at moments of sudden misfortune, even among people who are as close as can be, and there is not one person, without exception, who is free of it, notwithstanding even the sincerest feelings of pity and sympathy.
From the other side of the door, though, came talk of the hospital and what a pain it was to be disturbed for no reason. ‘It’s death that’s a pain!’ shouted Katerina Ivanovna, and she’d already rushed over to fling open the door and let them have it when she collided in the doorway with Mrs Lippewechsel herself, who’d only just heard about the misfortune and was hurrying over to restore order. A more cantankerous and disorderly German would be hard to imagine. ‘Oh my God!’ she cried, clasping her hands. ‘Your husband drunken trampled by horse. To ze hospital! I – landlady!’ ‘Amalia Ludwigovna! Please think before you speak,’ Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (speaking to the landlady, she always took a haughty tone, so that the latter would ‘know her place’, and even now she could not deny herself this pleasure). ‘Amalia Ludwigovna . . .’ ‘I told you for-once-and-for-twice: don’t dare you call me Amal Ludwigovna; it’s Amal-Ivan!’
‘Your name is not Amal-Ivan, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and since I am not one of your vile flatterers, like Mr Lebezyatnikov, who is laughing as we speak on the other side of the door,’ – laughter rang out from there as if on cue, along with the cry, ‘They’re at it again!’ – ‘I shall always call you Amalia Ludwigovna, although why you should dislike this name so much is quite beyond me. You can see what’s happened to Semyon Zakharovich: he is dying. Be so kind as to close this door immediately and not let anyone in. Let him die in peace, at least! I assure you that otherwise the Governor General will be informed of 38 your behaviour by tomorrow at the latest. The princehas known me from even before my marriage and remembers Semyon Zakharovich very well, having bestowed his kindness on him on many occasions. It is widely known that Semyon Zakharovich had many friends and patrons, whom he, in his noble pride, forsook of his own accord, conscious of his unfortunate weakness, but now’ – she pointed to Raskolnikov – ‘we are being helped by a young and generous soul, well-off and well-connected, whom Semyon Zakharovich has known since childhood, and rest assured, Amalia Ludwigovna . . .’ All this was said at extraordinary, ever-increasing speed, but a fit of coughing instantly put paid to Katerina Ivanovna’s oratory. That same moment, the dying man came to and groaned, and she ran over towards him. He opened his eyes and, still not recognizing or understanding, began to stare at the man standing over him – Raskolnikov.
He was breathing heavily, deeply and sporadically; the edges of his lips were marked with blood; his forehead was beaded with sweat. Failing to recognize Raskolnikov, he began anxiously looking round. Katerina Ivanovna fixed him with a sad but severe gaze, and tears ran down her face. ‘Dear God! His whole chest has been crushed! The blood, the blood!’ she despaired. ‘His outer clothing has to come
off, all of it! Turn a little, Semyon Zakharovich, if you can!’
she shouted at him.
Marmeladov recognized her. ‘A priest!’ he croaked.
Katerina Ivanovna stepped back towards the window, rested her forehead on the frame and cried despairingly: ‘Damn this life!’ ‘A priest!’ the dying man repeated after a moment’s silence. ‘They’ve already gone!’ Katerina Ivanovna yelled back.
He obeyed and fell silent. He sought her out with timid, sorrowful eyes; she returned to him and stood by his bedside. He calmed down a little, but not for long. Soon his eyes came to rest on little Lidochka (his favourite), who was shaking in the corner as if she were having a fit and looking at him with her surprised, childish stare. ‘Ah . . . ah . . . ,’ he stammered anxiously in her direction.
He wanted to say something. ‘Now what?’ shouted Katerina Ivanovna. ‘No shoes! No shoes!’ he muttered, staring wild-eyed at the little girl’s bare feet. ‘Just shut up!’ Katerina Ivanovna shouted with irritation. ‘You know damned well why!’ ‘Thank God, the doctor!’ Raskolnikov rejoiced.
In came the doctor, a little, neatly dressed old German, looking around with a mistrustful air. He walked over to the patient, took his pulse, carefully felt his head and, with Katerina Ivanovna’s help, undid all the buttons on the blood-soaked shirt, baring the patient’s chest. It was thoroughly mangled, crumpled and mutilated; several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left, right over the heart, was a sinister, large, yellow-black mark, where a hoof had struck him hard. The doctor frowned. The police officer told him that the trampled man had got caught in the wheel and was dragged, spinning, some thirty paces along the road.
‘Incredible he came round after that,’ the doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov. ‘So what’s your verdict?’ the latter asked.
‘He’ll die any moment.’ ‘There’s no hope at all?’ ‘None! His last gasp . . . Not to mention the terrible injury to his head . . . H’m. I suppose we could let some blood . . . but . . . it won’t help. In five or ten minutes he’ll
be dead, I’m certain.’ ‘Well let some blood, then!’ ‘All right . . . But I warn you: it won’t help.’ At that moment there came the sound of more footsteps, the crowd around the door parted and a priest, a grey old man, appeared on the threshold with the last sacraments. A police officer, one of those from before, followed him in.
The doctor immediately yielded his place and gave the priest a meaningful look. Raskolnikov begged the doctor to wait a bit longer. The doctor shrugged his shoulders and stayed.
Everyone took a step back. The confession was very brief. The dying man could scarcely have taken much in; he was capable only of broken, indistinct sounds. Katerina Ivanovna grabbed Lidochka, picked the boy up off the chair, took them over towards the stove in the corner and kneeled, making the children kneel down in front of her.
The girl merely shook, but the boy, kneeling on his bare little knees, steadily raised his hand, made the full sign of the cross and bowed down to the ground until he knocked his forehead, which evidently gave him particular pleasure.
Katerina Ivanovna bit her lip and fought back tears; she too was praying, adjusting the boy’s shirt every now and again and covering the girl’s exposed shoulders with a shawl, which she’d taken from the chest of drawers while still praying on her knees. In the meantime the doors to the inner rooms were being opened again by curious residents, while by the entrance the crush of spectators – tenants
from every floor – swelled and swelled, though without crossing the threshold. Just one candle stub illuminated the entire scene.
At that moment Polenka, who had run off to fetch her sister, quickly squeezed back through to the room. She was completely out of breath from sprinting, took off her shawl, sought out her mother, walked up to her and said: ‘She’s coming! I found her in the street.’ Her mother got her to kneel down next to her. Soundlessly and timidly, a girl squeezed through the crowd, and strange was her sudden appearance in this room, amidst the beggary, rags, death and despair. She too wore rags; her get-up was cheap, but it came with all the adornments of the street, as the rules and etiquette of that special world demanded, with its shamingly flagrant purpose. Sonya stopped on the threshold; she didn’t cross it and looked quite lost, as if her mind had gone blank. She’d quite forgotten about her fourth-hand, colourful silk dress, utterly out of place here with its ridiculously long train, and about her enormous crinoline obstructing the doorway, and her bright shoes and her parasol, which she’d taken with her even though it was night, and the ridiculous round straw hat with a feather the 39 colour of fire.From beneath its boyish tilt there peered a thin, pale, frightened little face with a wide-open mouth and eyes frozen in horror. Sonya, a shortish girl of eighteen or so, was a skinny but pretty enough blonde, with marvellous blue eyes. She stared at the bed, at the priest; she too was out of breath. Eventually, a whispered word or two from the crowd must have reached her ears. Eyes lowered, she took one step over the threshold and stood in the room, though still in the doorway.
Confession and communion were over. Katerina Ivanovna returned to her husband’s bed. The priest stepped back and tried, as he was leaving, to offer a few words of counsel and consolation to Katerina Ivanovna.
‘And what’ll I do with this lot?’ she broke in sharply, pointing at the little ones. ‘God is kind. Trust in the help of the Almighty,’ the priest
began. ‘Ha! Kind, just not to us!’ ‘That’s a sin, ma’am, a sin,’ the priest remarked, shaking his head. ‘And this isn’t a sin?’ shouted Katerina Ivanovna, pointing at the dying man. ‘Perhaps those who were the unwitting cause will agree to recompense you, at least for the lost income . . .’ ‘That’s not what I mean!’ Katerina Ivanovna shouted irritably with a flap of her hand. ‘Recompense for what? He got himself run over when he was drunk! What income?
There was no income from him, only pain. He spent whatever there was on booze. Robbed us, then straight to the pothouse, wasting their life and mine on drink! Thank God he’s dying! We can cut our losses!’ ‘Forgiveness is called for in the hour of death, but this is a sin, ma’am; such feelings as these are truly a sin!’ Katerina Ivanovna was fussing around the patient, giving him water, wiping the sweat and blood from his head and adjusting the pillows, while talking to the priest and occasionally managing to turn in his direction. Now she suddenly pounced on him in a kind of frenzy. ‘Father! These are nothing but words! “Forgive!” Take today – he’d have come home drunk if he hadn’t been trampled, wearing the only shirt he’s got, all tattered and worn, and he’d be sound asleep two minutes later, while I’d be slopping about till dawn, washing his rags and the children’s, then drying them out by the window, and at first light I’d be sitting down to mend them – so much for my night! . . . What’s forgiveness got to do with it? Haven’t I forgiven him enough?’ A terrible cough from deep in her chest cut her short.
She spat everything into her handkerchief and held it out
for the priest to see, clutching her chest with her other hand. The handkerchief was all red with blood . . .
The priest hung his head and said nothing.
Marmeladov was in the final throes. He kept his eyes fixed on Katerina Ivanovna’s face as she bent over him once more. He was trying to tell her something. He made a start, working his tongue with difficulty and mumbling a word or two, but Katerina Ivanovna, realizing he was about to ask her forgiveness, instantly shouted him down: ‘Shut up! Just don’t! . . . I know what you want to say!’ – and he fell silent; but at that same moment his wandering gaze fell on the doorway and he saw Sonya . . .
He hadn’t noticed her before; she was standing in a corner, in the shadows. ‘Who’s that? Who’s that?’ he suddenly said in a hoarse gasp, panicking and indicating with horror-filled eyes the doorway where his daughter was standing, and straining to lift himself up. ‘Lie down! Lie down, I say!’ shouted Katerina Ivanovna.
But somehow, making an unnatural effort, he managed to prop himself up on one arm. For a while he looked wildly and fixedly at his daughter, as if unsure who she was. This was the first time, after all, that he’d seen her in such an outfit. Then suddenly he recognized her: abject, crushed, dressed up and ashamed, meekly waiting her turn to say farewell to her dying father. His face expressed infinite suffering. ‘Sonya! Daughter! Forgive!’ he cried and was about to stretch out his hand towards her but, losing his balance, tumbled from the couch face down onto the floor: he was quickly picked up and put back, but he was already slipping away. Sonya gave a weak cry, ran up, embraced him and froze in that embrace. He died in her arms. ‘Well, he’s done it this time!’ shouted Katerina Ivanovna, seeing her husband’s corpse. ‘Now what? How will I bury him? And how will I feed this lot tomorrow?’
Raskolnikov walked over to her. ‘Katerina Ivanovna,’ he began, ‘last week the deceased, your husband, told me the story of his whole life, in every detail . . . Rest assured that he spoke of you with the most exalted respect. Ever since that evening, when I learned how devoted he was to you all, and, in particular, how much he respected and loved you, Katerina Ivanovna, despite his unfortunate weakness, ever since then we’ve been friends . . . So permit me now . . . to assist . . . as a way of returning my debt to my late friend. Here . . . twenty roubles, I believe – and if this can be of any help to you, then . . . I . . . in a word, I’ll be back – for sure . . . perhaps I’ll come by tomorrow . . . Goodbye!’ With that he hurried out of the room, squeezing through the crowd to the stairs; but in the crowd he suddenly came face to face with Nikodim Fomich, who’d heard about the misfortune and wanted to take charge of the situation in person. They hadn’t met since the scene at the bureau, but the district superintendent recognized him at once. ‘Ah, it’s you?’ he asked. ‘Dead,’ replied Raskolnikov. ‘The doctor came, the priest came, everything’s fine. Don’t trouble this poor, poor woman, she’s consumptive as it is. Cheer her up, if you can . . . You’re a kind sort, after all . . . ,’ he added with a smirk, looking straight into his eyes. ‘But look at you – you’re soaked in blood,’ Nikodim Fomich observed, noticing in the light of the lantern several fresh stains on Raskolnikov’s waistcoat. ‘Yes, I’m soaked . . . all red with blood!’ Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air, then smiled, nodded and set off down the stairs.
He went down in no great hurry, feeling feverish all over and, though unaware of it, filled by a new, boundless sensation of life surging over him suddenly in all its strength. This sensation might have been compared to that of a man sentenced to death who’s been granted a sudden
and unexpected pardon. The priest, who was on his way home, caught up with him halfway down the stairs.
Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent bow. But then, having almost reached the bottom, he suddenly heard rapid footsteps behind him. Someone was hurrying after him. It was Polenka. She was running and calling out to him, ‘Wait! Wait!’ He turned round. She was running down the last flight and stopped right in front of him, one step above him. A dull light seeped in from outside. Raskolnikov made out the girl’s thin sweet face smiling at him, looking at him with childish cheerfulness. She was clearly delighted to have been entrusted with this task. ‘Wait, what’s your name? . . . Oh yes, and where do you live?’ she asked in a breathless little voice.
He laid both hands on her shoulders and gazed at her with a kind of happiness. It felt so nice to look at her – he
himself didn’t know why. ‘So who sent you?’ ‘Sister Sonya sent me,’ the girl replied, smiling even more cheerfully. ‘I thought it must have been sister Sonya.’ ‘Mama sent me, too. When sister Sonya was telling me, Mama also came and said, “Quick as you can, Polenka!”’ ‘Do you love sister Sonya?’ ‘I love her more than anyone!’ said Polenka with particular certainty, and her smile suddenly became more
serious. ‘And will you love me?’ Instead of a reply he saw the girl’s little face coming towards him and her chubby little lips guilelessly puckering out to kiss him. Suddenly she hugged him tight in her matchstick arms, rested her head on his shoulder and sobbed softly, pressing her face tighter and tighter against him.
‘I feel sorry for Daddy!’ she said a minute later, lifting her wet face and wiping away the tears with her hands. ‘It’s one bad thing after another at the moment,’ she added unexpectedly, with that particular air of gravity which children always try to assume when they suddenly want to
speak ‘like grown-ups’. ‘And did Daddy love you?’ ‘He loved Lidochka best of all,’ she continued, very seriously and unsmilingly, just like grown-ups speak, ‘because she’s little and because she’s sick, and he always used to give her sweets, and he taught us to read, and taught me grammar and scripture,’ she added with pride, ‘and Mummy didn’t say anything, but we could tell she liked it, and Daddy could, too, and Mummy wants to teach me French, because it’s time for me now to receive my
education.’ ‘What about praying – can you do that?’ ‘Oh, of course we can – since forever! I pray on my own as I’m big already, and Kolya and Lidochka pray aloud with Mummy. First they say “Hail Mary” and then another prayer, “Lord, forgive and bless sister Sonya”, and then another, “Lord, forgive and bless our other daddy”, because our older daddy has already died, and this one’s our second, so we pray for the other one, too.’ ‘Polechka, my name’s Rodion. Pray for me, too, sometimes; “and your servant Rodion” – nothing else.’ ‘I’ll pray for you every day of my life,’ said the girl ardently and suddenly burst out laughing again, threw herself on his neck and hugged him once more.
Raskolnikov told her his name, gave his address and promised to come by the very next day without fail. The little girl left, completely entranced. It was gone ten when he stepped outside. Five minutes later he was standing on the bridge, on exactly the same spot from which the woman had thrown herself earlier.
‘Enough!’ he uttered decisively and solemnly. ‘No more mirages! No more false fears! No more phantoms! . . .
There is life! Wasn’t I alive just now? So my life hasn’t died yet together with the old hag! May you see the kingdom of heaven – and that’s your lot, old mother, your time’s up!
Now for the kingdom of reason and light and . . . and will, and strength . . . and now we’ll see! Now we’ll see how we measure up!’ he added haughtily, as though addressing and challenging some force of darkness. ‘Haven’t I already agreed to live on one square yard? ‘... I’m very feeble now, but . . . my sickness seems to have passed completely. I knew it would when I went out earlier. Hang on: Pochinkov’s house, it’s a stone’s throw away. Yes, I must go to Razumikhin, even if it’s more than a stone’s throw . . . Let him win his bet! . . . Let him have his fun . . . So what! . . . Strength is what’s needed, strength: you won’t get anywhere without it. And you can only win strength with strength – that’s what they’re missing,’ he added with arrogant pride and, scarcely able to place one foot in front of the other, left the bridge behind him. His pride and self-confidence were growing by the minute; and a minute was all it took for him to become a different man.
What on earth could have happened to bring about such a change? He himself did not know; like a man clutching at a straw, he’d suddenly felt that ‘even for me there is life, and life goes on, and my life hasn’t died yet together with the old hag.’ His conclusion was too hasty, perhaps, but he had other things to worry about. ‘Still, I did request a mention for your servant Rodion’ – suddenly flashed through his mind – ‘but that’s . . . just in case!’ he added, before immediately laughing at his own childish sally. He was in a quite splendid mood.
Finding Razumikhin proved easy enough. The new tenant was already a familiar face at Pochinkov’s house and the caretaker immediately pointed Raskolnikov in the right direction. Even halfway up the stairs there was no
mistaking the noise and animation of a large gathering. The door to the stairs was wide open; he could hear shouting and arguing. Razumikhin’s room was fairly big and some fifteen people had gathered. Raskolnikov stopped in the entrance hall. Behind a partition two of the landlord’s maids were busy with two large samovars, bottles, plates and dishes bearing a pie and somehors d’oeuvres brought from the landlady’s kitchen. Raskolnikov asked for Razumikhin, who rushed over in the greatest excitement.
One glance at him was enough to see that he’d put away a quite phenomenal amount, and though Razumikhin hardly ever managed to drink enough to get drunk, this time the signs were there. ‘Listen,’ Raskolnikov rushed, ‘I’ve just come to say that you’ve won the bet and that it really is true that no one knows what the future holds for them. I can’t come in. I’m so weak I’m about to collapse. So hello and goodbye! Come and see me tomorrow . . .’ ‘Know what? I’ll walk you home! If even you admit that you’re weak . . .’ ‘What about your guests? Who’s the one with the curly hair who just poked his head round?’ ‘Him? Damned if I know! Must be a mate of my uncle’s, or maybe he just turned up . . . I’ll leave my uncle with them, he’s a priceless man. Shame you can’t meet him. But to hell with them all anyway! They’re doing fine without me and I could do with some fresh air – so you’ve come in the nick of time: another minute or two and I’d have picked a fight in there! Chronic fibbers, the lot of them . . . You’ve no idea how deep a man can sink in lies! Though actually, why shouldn’t you? Don’t we lie often enough? So let’s leave them to it: lie now, and they won’t lie later . . . Hang on a minute, I’ll go and get Zosimov.’ Zosimov fell upon Raskolnikov almost hungrily; there was some special curiosity in him; soon his face brightened.
‘Straight to bed,’ he decided, after examining the patient as best he could, ‘and take one of these for the night.
Agreed? I prepared it earlier . . . just a little powder.’
‘Fine by me,’ replied Raskolnikov.
He took the powder there and then. ‘A very good thing you’re going with him,’ Zosimov remarked to Razumikhin. ‘We’ll have to see what tomorrow will bring, but today’s not been bad at all: a significant change for the better. You learn something new every day . . .’ ‘Know what Zosimov whispered to me just now when we were leaving?’ Razumikhin blurted out as soon as they were outside. ‘I’ll be straight with you about everything, brother, seeing as they’re all idiots. Zosimov told me to chat to you on the way and get you talking, too, and then tell him, because he’s got a notion . . . that you’re . . . mad or near enough mad. Can you imagine? First of all, you’re three times cleverer than him. Secondly, if you’re not crazy why should you care less about his wild ideas? And thirdly, this lump of meat – a surgeon by trade – has gone crazy about mental illness, and your chat with Zametov today
made up his mind about you for good.’ ‘Zametov told you everything?’ ‘The whole lot, and a good thing too. Now I know all the ins and outs, and so does Zametov . . . Well, to cut a long story short, Rodya . . . The thing is . . . I’m a bit tipsy right now . . . But never mind . . . The thing is, this notion . . . You know? Well, it really is pecking away at them . . . I mean, none of them dare come straight out with it, ’cause it’s such raving nonsense, and then, once that painter was brought in it all went up in smoke. But why do they have to be so stupid? I smacked Zametov around a bit at the time – that’s between ourselves, brother, and please don’t let on.
I’ve noticed he’s touchy. It happened at Laviza’s – but today, today everything became clear. That Ilya Petrovich, he’s the key! He took advantage of you fainting in the bureau that
time, and even felt ashamed about it later; I know the whole story . . .’ Raskolnikov was all ears. Razumikhin was drunk and saying more than he should. ‘The reason I fainted that time was the stuffiness and the smell of oil paint,’ said Raskolnikov. ‘As if you need to explain! It wasn’t just the paint: you’d had an inflammation developing all month. Ask Zosimov!
And what about that kid Zametov – he’s simply mortified!
“I’m not worth that man’s little finger!” he says. Your little finger, he means. He has his kinder moments, you know.
But what a lesson he was given today in the “Crystal Palace” – the peak of perfection! What a fright you gave him – turned him into a quivering wreck! You almost had him believing all that hideous nonsense again, then suddenly stuck out your tongue as if to say, “Ha! Fooled you!” Perfection! Now he’s crushed, destroyed! You’re a genius, damn it – that’s the only way to show ’em. If only I’d been there! He was desperate for you to come just now.
Porfiry also wants to meet you . . .’ ‘Ah . . . him as well . . . But why have they decided I’m mad?’ ‘Not mad exactly. I’ve been talking too much, brother . . .
What struck them, you see, was that you only care about this one point (but now it’s clear why, given the circumstances) . . . and how annoyed you got at the time and how it all got mixed up with your illness . . . I’m a bit tipsy, brother, but he’s got this notion . . . I’m telling you, he’s gone crazy about mental illness. Just ignore him . . .’ Both fell silent for half a minute or so. ‘Listen, Razumikhin,’ Raskolnikov began, ‘I’ll be straight with you: I’ve just come from a death, a civil servant . . . I gave away all my money there . . . and, what’s more, I was kissed just now by a creature who, even if I really had killed someone, would also . . . to cut it short, I saw another creature there, too . . . with a feather the colour of fire . . .
actually, I’m lying through my teeth. I’m very weak – help me . . . here are the stairs . . .’ ‘What’s wrong with you? What is it?’ asked Razumikhin in alarm. ‘My head’s started spinning, but never mind. I just feel so sad, so terribly sad! Like a woman . . . I mean it! Look,
what’s that? Look! Look!’ ‘What?’ ‘Can’t you see? A light in my room, see? Through the crack . . .’ They were already at the bottom of the last flight of stairs, by the landlady’s kitchen, and a light in Raskolnikov’s garret really was visible from below. ‘How strange! Might be Nastasya,’ said Razumikhin. ‘She’s never in my room at this hour, and anyway she’ll be fast asleep by now. But . . . what do I care? Goodbye!’ ‘Are you joking? I’ll go with you – we’ll go in together!’ ‘I know we’ll go in together, but I feel like shaking your hand and saying goodbye to you here. Well, give me your
hand, then, and goodbye!’ ‘What’s wrong, Rodya?’ ‘Nothing. Let’s go. You’ll be the witness . . .’ They started climbing the stairs, and the thought flashed through Razumikhin’s mind that perhaps Zosimov was right after all. ‘I’ve gone and upset him with all my talk!’ he muttered to himself. Suddenly, approaching the door, they heard voices in the room. ‘What on earth’s going on here?’ cried Razumikhin.
Raskolnikov got to the handle first, flung open the door and stood rooted to the threshold.
His mother and sister were sitting on his couch and had already been waiting for an hour and a half. Why had he not been expecting them? Why had he not even been thinking about them, despite the reports, confirmed only today, that they were leaving, that they were on their way, arriving any moment? For an hour and a half now they’d
been vying with one another to interrogate Nastasya, who was still standing there before them, having already filled them in on everything. They were beside themselves with worry on hearing that he ‘ran off today’ while sick and, by all accounts, delirious! ‘God, what’s the matter with him?’ Both had been crying; both had suffered all the agonies of the cross during this one-and-a-half hour wait.
A joyful, ecstatic cry greeted Raskolnikov’s appearance.
Both women threw themselves upon him. But he was more dead than alive; an awareness of something struck him like thunder, with sudden, excruciating force. He couldn’t even lift his arms to embrace them: they wouldn’t move. Mother and sister smothered him in embraces, kissed him, laughed, cried . . . He took one step forward, swayed and crashed to the floor in a faint.
Alarm, cries of horror, groans . . . Razumikhin, who’d been standing on the threshold, flew into the room, grabbed the sick man in his mighty arms and laid him out on the couch a second later. ‘It’s nothing, nothing!’ he shouted to the women. ‘He just fainted, that’s all! The doctor said just now that he’s so much better, that he’s right as rain! Some water please!
See, he’s already coming round. See, he’s already come to!’ And grabbing Dunechka’s hand so hard he almost twisted it, he made her bend over to see for herself that ‘he’s already come to’. Both mother and sister looked at Razumikhin as if he were Providence itself, with tenderness and gratitude; they’d already heard from Nastasya what this man had done for their Rodya throughout his sickness – this ‘competent young man’, as he’d been called that evening, in private conversation with Dunya, by Pulkheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikova herself.
