I
Raskolnikov raised himself and sat up on the couch.
He gestured feebly to Razumikhin to put an end to the torrent of muddled, fervent reassurances he was directing at the two women, took them both by the hand and spent about two minutes silently studying one, then the other. His mother was frightened by his gaze. It betrayed the most intense emotion, even suffering, but there was also something fixed, almost insane about it. Pulkheria Alexandrovna began to cry.
Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother’s. ‘Go home now . . . with him,’ he said in a faltering voice, pointing towards Razumikhin. ‘Till tomorrow. Tomorrow, everything . . . When did you arrive?’ ‘This evening, Rodya,’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna replied. ‘The train was terribly late. But Rodya, nothing will drag me away from you! I’ll spend the night here beside you . . .’ ‘Don’t torment me!’ he said with an irritable wave of his hand. ‘I’ll stay with him!’ cried Razumikhin. ‘I won’t leave him for even a minute, and all the people at my place can go to hell. They can climb the walls for all I care! I’ve left my uncle in charge.’ ‘How, how will I ever thank you?’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna began, squeezing Razumikhin’s hands once more, but again Raskolnikov interrupted her: ‘I can’t bear this, I just can’t,’ he repeated irritably. ‘Stop tormenting me! That’s enough, just leave . . . I can’t bear it!’ ‘Let’s go, Mama, let’s wait outside, at least for a moment,’ whispered Dunya in fright. ‘This is killing him,
it’s obvious.’ ‘But can’t I even look at him, after three whole years?’ wept Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘Wait!’ he stopped them once more. ‘You keep interrupting me and I can’t think straight . . . Have you seen Luzhin?’ ‘No, Rodya, but he already knows we’ve arrived. We heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovich was so kind as to pay you a visit today,’ added Pulkheria Alexandrovna with a certain timidity. ‘Yes . . . so kind . . . Dunya, I told Luzhin I’d throw him down the stairs, then I sent him packing . . .’ ‘Rodya, how could you? You must have . . . You don’t mean to say . . . ?’ began Pulkheria Alexandrovna in alarm, but stopped after taking one look at Dunya.
Avdotya Romanovna was staring intently at her brother and waiting for him to go on. Both had been forewarned about the row by Nastasya, insofar as she could understand and explain it, and both had gone through agony waiting and wondering. ‘Dunya,’ Raskolnikov went on with an effort, ‘I’m against this marriage, which is why the first thing you should say to Luzhin, tomorrow at the latest, is to reject him and let that be the last we see of him.’ ‘Good grief!’ cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘Brother, think what you’re saying!’ Avdotya Romanovna flared up, before instantly checking herself. ‘Perhaps you’re not up to this now. You’re tired,’ she continued meekly. ‘I’m raving, am I? No . . . You’re marrying Luzhin for me.
But I don’t accept your sacrifice. So write a letter tonight . . . turning him down . . . Give it to me to read in the morning and that’ll be the end of it!’ ‘I can’t do that!’ cried the offended girl. ‘What right . . . ?’ ‘Dunechka, you’ve got a quick temper, too. That’s enough . . . Tomorrow . . . Can’t you see?’ her mother panicked,
rushing towards Dunya. ‘Come, we’re better off leaving!’ ‘He’s raving!’ shouted Razumikhin drunkenly. ‘He wouldn’t dare otherwise! By tomorrow he’ll be making sense again . . . But today he really did send him packing.
That’s true enough. And that chap lost his rag . . . There he was holding forth, showing off his learning, and left with his tail between his legs . . .’ ‘So it’s true?’ cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘Until tomorrow, brother,’ said Dunya, compassionately. ‘Let’s go, Mama . . . Goodbye, Rodya!’ ‘Listen, sister,’ he repeated as she was leaving, summoning the last of his strength, ‘I’m not raving. This is a scoundrel’s marriage. I may be a scoundrel, but you shouldn’t . . . One or the other . . . And even if I am a scoundrel, a sister like that is no sister of mine. It’s me or Luzhin! Now go . . .’ ‘You’re out of your mind! You’re a tyrant!’ roared Razumikhin, but Raskolnikov said nothing more; perhaps he had no strength left to do so. He lay down on the couch and turned to the wall in complete exhaustion. Avdotya Romanovna glanced with interest at Razumikhin. Her black eyes flashed: it was enough to make Razumikhin flinch.
Pulkheria Alexandrovna just stood there in shock. ‘Nothing will drag me away!’ she whispered to Razumikhin, in near despair. ‘I’ll stay here, somewhere . . . you accompany Dunya.’ ‘And you’ll ruin everything!’ Razumikhin whispered back, almost beside himself. ‘Let’s go out onto the landing, at least. Nastasya, give us some light! I swear to you,’ he continued on the stairs in a half-whisper, ‘that he very nearly started hitting us before, the doctor and me!!
Understand? The doctor, no less! He didn’t retaliate, for fear of irritating him even more, and left, while I stayed behind downstairs to keep an eye on him, but he got dressed and slipped out. He’ll slip out now, too, if you
irritate him, out into the night, and who knows what he
might do to himself . . . ?’ ‘What are you saying?’ ‘And Avdotya Romanovna simply can’t be left on her own in those rooms without you! What a place to be staying! As if that scoundrel, Pyotr Petrovich, couldn’t have found you anywhere better . . . But I’m a bit drunk, you know, and that’s why I was so . . . rude. Don’t pay any . . .’ ‘But I’ll go and see the landlady here,’ insisted Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘I’ll beg her to find Dunya and me a corner somewhere, just for tonight. I can’t leave him in this state. I just can’t!’ They were standing on the stairs, on the landing, right in front of the landlady’s door. Nastasya was shining a light from the bottom step. Razumikhin was extraordinarily excited. Only half an hour before, walking Raskolnikov home, he may have been talking too much, as he himself was aware, but he felt bright and almost fresh, despite the appalling amount he’d drunk that evening. But now his state of mind verged on ecstasy and it was as though everything he’d drunk had gone to his head all over again, all at once and with redoubled force. Having grabbed both ladies by the hand, he was trying to talk them round and was making his case with astonishing frankness; and as if to press his point home more vigorously, he would give both hands a very hard, painful, vice-like squeeze with almost every word, while almost devouring Avdotya Romanovna with his eyes and without the slightest hint of embarrassment. Sometimes they tried to wrest their aching hands from his enormous, bony great fists, but far from noticing that there was anything the matter, he drew them even harder towards him. Had they ordered him there and then, as a favour, to hurl himself from the stairs head first, he’d have done so immediately, without a moment’s hesitation. Pulkheria Alexandrovna, worried sick about her dear Rodya, may have sensed how very eccentric the young
man was and how very hard he was squeezing her hand, but for her he was Providence itself, so she had little inclination to notice all these eccentric details. While sharing the same anxiety, Avdotya Romanovna met the blazing, wild gaze of her brother’s friend with astonishment and almost with fear, though she was by no means timid, and only the limitless confidence inspired by Nastasya’s stories about this strange man stopped her from attempting to run away from him with her mother in tow. She also realized that it was probably too late for that now. In any case, ten minutes or so later she felt considerably calmer: Razumikhin had the habit of getting everything off his chest all at once, with the result that everyone soon learned what kind of man they were dealing with. ‘Going to the landlady’s out of the question – the very idea’s absurd!’ he cried, prevailing upon Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘I know you’re his mother, but by staying you’ll only whip him up into a frenzy, and the devil knows what will happen then! Listen, here’s what we’ll do: Nastasya can sit with him for a bit, while I walk you home, because you mustn’t be out on your own; in Petersburg that would be . . . Well, never mind! . . . Then I’ll run straight back here from yours and within a quarter of an hour, word of honour, I’ll bring you my report: how he’s feeling, how he’s sleeping, etcetera. Then (listen!) I’ll dash from your place to mine (I’ve got guests there, all drunk) and grab Zosimov – that’s the doctor who’s treating him, he’s at my place now, sober. He’s always sober, that man, always! And I’ll drag him over to Rodya and then straight on to you, so in the space of an hour you’ll get two bulletins, one from the doctor – that’s right, the doctor himself, so you can forget about me! If it’s bad news I’ll bring you here myself, I swear, and if it’s good news you can just go to bed. And I’ll spend the whole night here, near the door, he won’t even hear, and I’ll tell Zosimov to sleep at the landlady’s, so as to have him on hand. Well, what’s the best thing for him
now, you or a doctor? A doctor and no two ways about it. So you’re best going home! The landlady’s out of the question; for you, I mean, not for me: she won’t have you, because . . . because she’s a fool. She’s fond of me and jealous of Avdotya Romanovna, if you must know, and of you, too, come to that . . . But definitely Avdotya Romanovna. A quite astonishing individual! But then I’m a fool, too . . . Never mind! Let’s go! Do you believe me? Well, do you believe me or don’t you?’ ‘Let’s go, Mama,’ said Avdotya Romanovna. ‘I’m sure he’ll do as he says. He’s already brought my brother back to life, and if it’s true that the doctor will agree to spend the night here, then what could be better?’ ‘See, you . . . you . . . you understand me . . . You’re an angel!’ cried Razumikhin in ecstasy. ‘Let’s go! Nastasya! Go up, quick as you can, and sit with him, with a candle; I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour . . .’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna, though not entirely convinced, offered no further resistance. Razumikhin took them both by the arm and dragged them down the stairs. Still, he worried her: ‘Yes, he’s competent and he’s kind, but is he in any condition to do what he promises? Just look at the state of him!’ ‘Ah, I see what you’re thinking: I mean, look at the state of me!’ Razumikhin broke in, guessing her thoughts and striding with great big steps along the pavement, with both ladies struggling to keep up – not that he noticed. ‘Poppycock! I mean . . . I’m as drunk as an oaf, but that’s not the point. I’m not drunk from drink. It was seeing you that went to my head . . . But never mind me! Take no notice: I’m talking rubbish. I’m unworthy of you . . . I’m exceedingly unworthy of you! . . . But just as soon as I’ve walked you home I’ll pour two tubs of water over my head right here by the Ditch and I’ll be ready . . . If you only knew how much I love you both! . . . Don’t laugh! Don’t get angry! Get angry with everyone else, but don’t get angry
with me! I’m his friend, so I’m your friend too . . . I had a feeling this would happen . . . last year there was this moment . . . Actually, that’s not true at all: you fell out of a clear blue sky. And now, I expect I won’t sleep a wink all night . . . That Zosimov was afraid he might go mad . . .
That’s why he mustn’t be irritated . . .’ ‘What are you saying?’ cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘Did the doctor really say that?’ asked Avdotya Romanovna, frightened. ‘He did, but he’s completely off the mark. He even gave him some medicine, a powder, I saw him, and then you arrived . . . Dear me! You’re better off coming back tomorrow! A good job we left. And in an hour’s time Zosimov himself will give you a full report. Now there’s a man who’s not drunk! And I won’t be drunk either . . . But why did I have to get so tanked? Because they picked an argument, damn them! Just when I’d vowed not to argue! . . . The rubbish they talk! I nearly got into a fight! I left my uncle in charge . . . I mean, can you believe it? A complete 1 lack of personality,that’s what they’re after, that’s what excites them! Anything so as not to be themselves, not to resemble themselves! For them, that’s the very height of progress. I mean, if only their lies were their own, at least . . .’ ‘Listen,’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but this merely added fuel to the flames. ‘Now what are you thinking?’ cried Razumikhin, raising even more. ‘That it’s their lies I can’t stand? Nonsense! I like it when people lie. Telling lies is humanity’s sole privilege over every other organism. Keep fibbing and you’ll end up with the truth! I’m only human because I lie.
No truth’s ever been discovered without fourteen fibs along the way, if not one hundred and fourteen, and there’s honour in that. But our lies aren’t even our own! Lie to me by all means, but make sure it’s your own, and then I’ll kiss
you. After all, lies of your own are almost better than someone else’s truth: in the first case you’re human; in the second you’re just a bird! The truth won’t run away, but life just might – wouldn’t be the first time. I mean, just look at us now! Name anything you like: science, development, thought, inventions, ideals, desires, liberalism, rationalism, experience, anything at all, anything, anything, anything – and we are all, without exception, still stuck in the first years of preparatory school! We just love making do with other people’s thoughts – we can’t get enough of them! I’m right, aren’t I?’ shouted Razumikhin, squeezing and shaking the hands of both women. ‘Aren’t I?’ ‘Good grief, how should I know?’ said poor Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘Yes, yes . . . although I can’t agree with you on every point,’ Avdotya Romanovna added seriously, before immediately letting out a shriek, so hard was he gripping her hand. ‘Yes? Yes, you say? Well, after this you’re . . . you’re . . . ,’ he cried in ecstasy, ‘you’re the fount of goodness, purity, reason and . . . perfection! Give me your hand, your hand . . . and you give me yours as well. I want to kiss your hands, here, now, on my knees!’ With that, he fell to his knees in the middle of the pavement, which, thank goodness, was deserted. ‘Stop, I beg you! What are you doing?’ cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna, deeply alarmed. ‘Up you get!’ laughed Dunya, also somewhat concerned. ‘Not on your life. Not until you give me your hands!
There, that’ll do. Now I’m up and we can go! I’m a miserable oaf, I’m unworthy of you, and drunk, and ashamed . . . I’m unworthy of loving you, but bowing down before you is the duty of any man unless he is an utter brute! So now I have bowed down before you . . . And here are the rooms, and they alone justify Rodion for throwing out that Pyotr Petrovich of yours! How dare he put you up
in such a place? What a scandal! Do you know what kind of people they allow in here? And you, a bride! You are a bride, aren’t you? Well then, let me tell you – your groom is a scoundrel!’ ‘Mr Razumikhin, you’ve quite forgotten yourself,’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna began. ‘Yes, yes, you’re right, I’ve forgotten myself, and I’m ashamed of myself!’ said Razumikhin, catching himself. ‘But . . . but . . . you can’t be angry with me for speaking like this! It’s because I’m speaking my mind, and not because . . . H’m! That would be vile. In a word, not because I’m in love with . . . H’m! . . . Well, let’s leave it there. I’d better not. I won’t say why, I don’t dare! . . . Well, we all understood the moment he walked in that he wasn’t our sort of chap. Not because he walked in straight from the barber shop, not because he was in such a hurry to flaunt his intelligence, but because he’s a snitch and an operator, a niggard and a charlatan – anyone can see it. You think he’s clever? No, he’s an idiot! An idiot! I mean, is he really any match for you? Good Lord! You see, ladies,’ he suddenly stopped, when they were already climbing the stairs to the rooms, ‘they may all be drunk at mine, but at least they’re honest, and we may all lie, me as much as the next man, but we’ll end up with the truth sooner or later, because our path is noble, while Pyotr Petrovich’s path . . . is not. I may have cursed them just now with every name in the book, but actually I respect them all, even Zametov – all right, I don’t respect him, but I love him because he’s such a puppy! Even that beast Zosimov, because he’s honest and knows his job . . . But enough: all is said and all is forgiven.
Forgiven? Yes? So let’s go. I know this corridor. I’ve been here before. There was a scandal right here, room Number 3 . . . Which is yours? Which number? Eight? Well, lock up for the night and don’t let anyone in. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour bearing news, and then half an hour later with Zosimov. You’ll see! Goodbye! Must dash!’
‘Good grief, Dunechka, where will this end?’ said Pulkheria Alexandrovna, turning to her daughter in alarm. ‘Calm yourself, Mama,’ replied Dunya, taking off her hat and cape. ‘God Himself sent us this gentleman, even if he is fresh from some party or other. He can be relied upon, I’m sure of it. Just think of everything he’s already done for Rodya . . .’ ‘Oh, Dunechka, God knows whether he’ll come or not!
And what on earth made me decide to leave Rodya? . . .
And how very different he was from how I’d imagined! How severe! As if he wasn’t even happy to see us . . .’ Tears appeared in her eyes. ‘No, that’s not true, dear Mama. You didn’t look closely enough; you were always crying. He’s very disturbed by his serious illness – that’s the reason behind it all.’ ‘Oh, this illness! There’s trouble ahead! The way he talked to you, Dunya!’ she said, looking timidly into her daughter’s eyes so as to read all her thoughts, and already half-consoled by the fact that Dunya was actually defending Rodya, so she must have forgiven him. ‘I’m convinced he’ll have a change of heart tomorrow,’ she added, as a final test. ‘And I’m equally convinced that tomorrow he’ll say exactly the same . . . about that,’ snapped Avdotya Romanovna, which, of course, killed the conversation dead, for this was a subject that Pulkheria Alexandrovna was now too frightened to touch. Dunya went up to her mother and kissed her. Pulkheria Alexandrovna hugged her tight, without a word. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumikhin’s return and began timidly observing her daughter, who, also waiting, began pensively pacing the room, arms folded. Walking like this from corner to corner, lost in thought, was a common habit of hers, and at such moments her mother was always scared to disturb her.
Razumikhin was ridiculous, of course, in his sudden, drunken infatuation with Avdotya Romanovna; but one look
at Avdotya Romanovna – especially now as she was pacing the room with her arms folded, sad and pensive – and many might have forgiven him, to say nothing of his eccentric state of mind. Avdotya Romanovna was remarkably good- looking: tall, astonishingly elegant, strong, with a confidence expressed in her every gesture, while taking nothing away from the softness and gracefulness of her movements. Her face resembled her brother’s, but it would have been no exaggeration to call her a beauty. Her hair was brown and slightly lighter than her brother’s; her eyes almost black, flashing, proud, yet occasionally, for minutes at a time, uncommonly kind. She was pale, but not sickly pale; her face shone with freshness and health. Her mouth was a little small, and her lower lip, fresh and crimson, protruded ever so slightly, together with her chin – the only imperfection on this beautiful face, but one which gave it its particular character and, incidentally, a kind of haughtiness. Her expression was always more serious than cheerful, always thoughtful; but how well her face was set off by a smile, by laughter, by cheerful, young, carefree laughter! Was it any wonder that ardent, candid, foolish, honest, mighty, drunken Razumikhin, having never seen anything of the kind, lost his head at first sight? What was more, chance – as if on purpose – had given him his first sight of Dunya at this sublime moment of love and joy on seeing her brother. Later, he saw her lower lip quiver indignantly in response to her brother’s impudent and ungratefully cruel orders – and could resist no longer.
Still, he was telling the truth earlier on the stairs, when he let slip that drunken comment about Raskolnikov’s eccentric landlady, Praskovya Pavlovna, being jealous not only of Avdotya Romanovna but, as likely as not, of Pulkheria Alexandrovna as well. Pulkheria Alexandrovna was already forty-three, but her face still retained traces of her former beauty, and, what was more, she looked far younger than her years, as is almost always the case with
women who retain their lucidity of spirit, freshness of impressions and pure, honest ardour of heart into old age.
Let us add in parenthesis that retaining all this is, in fact, the only way of keeping one’s beauty, at whatever age. Her hair had already begun to turn grey and thin out; small wrinkles had long ago spread out around her eyes; her cheeks were sunken and dry from worry and grief; yet still this face was beautiful. It was the image of Dunechka’s face, only twenty years on and without the expression given to Dunya’s by her protruding lower lip. Pulkheria Alexandrovna was sensitive but not mawkish, timid and accommodating, but only up to a point: she could concede a lot, agree to a lot, even to things that went against her beliefs, but there was always a limit set by her honesty, her principles and her deepest beliefs, which no circumstances could ever force her to cross.
Precisely twenty minutes after Razumikhin’s departure there were two restrained but hurried knocks at the door: he was back. ‘Can’t stay, must dash!’ he rattled off when they opened the door. ‘He’s snoring away like a trooper, and God willing he’ll sleep another ten hours. Nastasya’s with him; I told her to stay put till I get back. Now I’ll bring Zosimov over.
He’ll give you his full report and then you should turn in, too. You’re dead on your feet, I can see.’ With that, he set off down the corridor. ‘What a competent and . . . devoted young man!’ exclaimed Pulkheria Alexandrovna, having completely recovered her spirits. ‘Seems a very nice chap!’ replied Avdotya Romanovna with feeling, beginning to pace the room once more.
Almost an hour later there were footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. This time both women had waited with complete confidence in Razumikhin; and, indeed, here he was already with Zosimov. Zosimov had agreed without a moment’s hesitation to leave the party
and take a look at Raskolnikov, but he’d come to see the ladies with great reluctance and suspicion, mistrusting Razumikhin in his drunken state. His vanity, though, was instantly assuaged and even tickled: he saw that they really had been waiting for him, as if for an oracle. He stayed for precisely ten minutes, and wholly succeeded in persuading and reassuring Pulkheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with unusual sympathy, but also with a degree of restraint and with a pronounced seriousness, just as a twenty-seven-year- old doctor ought to speak during an important consultation, and not once did he digress from the subject in hand or show the slightest desire to put his relations with both ladies on a more personal and private footing. Having noted Avdotya Romanovna’s dazzling beauty the moment he walked in, he immediately set his mind to ignoring her entirely for the duration of his visit, and addressed himself solely to Pulkheria Alexandrovna. All this afforded him the profoundest inner satisfaction. Regarding the patient, he declared that he found his current condition wholly satisfactory. His own observations, meanwhile, suggested that the patient’s sickness, quite apart from the wretched material circumstances of his life in recent months, also had certain moral causes, ‘being the product, so to speak, of many complex moral and material influences, of anxieties, fears, cares, of certain ideas . . . and so on’.
Noting in passing that Avdotya Romanovna had become especially attentive, Zosimov decided to elaborate a little on this subject. To Pulkheria Alexandrovna’s anxious and timid query regarding ‘certain suspicions, as it were, of insanity’, he replied with a calm and candid smile that his words had been greatly exaggerated; that yes, of course, one could observe in the patient some sort of obsession, 2 something betraying monomania– after all, he, Zosimov, was following this exceptionally interesting branch of medicine particularly closely at present – but one had to
bear in mind that the patient had been delirious almost until today and . . . and, of course, the arrival of his family would make him stronger, distract him and have a salutary effect, ‘so long as fresh shocks to the system can be avoided’ – he added meaningfully. Then he got up, took his leave in an impressive, cordial manner, accompanied by blessings, fervent gratitude, entreaties and even, without his prompting, the outstretched hand of Avdotya Romanovna, and walked out, exceptionally pleased with his visit and, even more so, with himself. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Now off to bed and no dawdling!’ Razumikhin said through gritted teeth as he and Zosimov were leaving. ‘Tomorrow I’ll be back as early as I can with the latest.’ ‘Now there’s a delicious creature, that Avdotya Romanovna!’ Zosimov observed, almost licking his lips, once the two of them were outside. ‘Delicious? Delicious, you said?’ Razumikhin roared, before suddenly hurling himself at Zosimov and seizing him by the throat. ‘Just you try . . . Got it?’ he shouted, shaking him by the collar and pressing him to the wall. ‘Got it?’ ‘Let me go, you mad drunk!’ said Zosimov, fighting him off; then, once Razumikhin had released him, he stared at him and suddenly burst out laughing. Razumikhin stood drooped before him, lost in gloomy, grave deliberation. ‘All right, I’m an idiot,’ he said, dark as a thunder cloud, ‘but then . . . so are you.’ ‘No, brother, just you. I’m not the one dreaming.’ They walked on without speaking, and only as they were approaching Raskolnikov’s house did Razumikhin, deep in worry, break the silence. ‘Listen,’ he began, ‘you’re a good chap, but, aside from all your other lousy qualities, you’re a letch, I know you are, and a filthy one to boot. You’re highly strung and weak- kneed and half-crazy; you’ve run to fat and can’t deny yourself anything, which is what I call filth, because only
filth can come of it. You’ve cosseted yourself so much that I simply fail to comprehend how you also manage to be a good, even selfless physician. A doctor who sleeps on a bed of feathers and gets up at night to tend the sick! Give it three years and you’ll stop getting up at night . . . But that’s not the point, dammit. The point is this: you sleep in the landlady’s apartment tonight (I had a job convincing her!) and I’ll sleep in the kitchen: it’s your chance to get to know each other better! It’s not what you think! There’s not even a hint of that here, brother . . .’ ‘I wasn’t thinking anything.’ ‘What we have here, brother, is prudery, taciturnity, bashfulness, chastity of the fiercest kind, and yet – she sighs and she melts, she melts like wax! Save me from her, for the love of every devil on earth! She’s simply too avenante! . . . I’ll be forever in your debt!’ Zosimov guffawed even louder than before. ‘What on earth’s got into you? And what do I want with her?’ ‘She’s not much trouble, I assure you. Just say whatever comes into your head. Just sit with her and talk. Besides, you’re a doctor: find something and start curing it. I swear you won’t regret it. She’s got a clavichord; I like a little tinkle, as you know. I’ve got a piece there, a real, Russian song: “Burning tears will I shed . . .” She loves the real ones – actually, it was the song that started it all; and 3 you’re a virtuoso on the piano, a maestro, a Rubinstein. . .
You won’t regret it, I assure you!’ ‘You didn’t promise her anything, did you? Or sign something? Maybe you promised to marry her . . .’ ‘Nothing of the kind! Absolutely not! Anyway, she’s not that type at all. Chebarov had a go . . .’
‘So just drop her, then!’
‘I can’t just drop her!’ ‘Why on earth not?’
‘Well, I can’t, simple as that! Call it magnetism.’ ‘So why’ve you been leading her on?’ ‘I haven’t led her on in the slightest. Maybe I’m the one being led on, in my stupidity, but it won’t make a blind bit of difference to her whether it’s you or me, just so long as there’s someone sitting beside her and sighing. What we have here, brother . . . I just can’t put it into words . . . I know you’re good at maths and you still keep your hand in . . . Well, start by teaching her integral calculus. I’m not joking, dammit, I’m perfectly serious – it won’t make a blind bit of difference to her: she’ll look at you and she’ll sigh and a year will pass before you know it. You should have heard me telling her about the Prussian House of 4 Lordsfor two days running (what else should I talk to her about?) – she just sighed and perspired! Just don’t touch the subject of love (she’s hysterically bashful about that) and make it look like you’ll never leave – and that’ll do. It’s terribly cosy, just like home – you can read, sit, lounge about, write . . . You can even steal a kiss, if you’re careful .
. .’ ‘But what good is she to me?’ ‘If only I could make you understand! Can’t you see?
You’re ideally suited to one another! This isn’t the first time I’ve thought of it . . . After all, this is where you’ll end up!
So what does it matter whether it’s now or later? Think of it, brother, as the bed-of-feathers principle – ha! And not just feathers! It’s a magnetic force, the end of the world, an anchor, a quiet haven, the earth’s navel, the three fish on which the world still stands, the essence of pancakes, greasy coulibiac pies, the evening samovar, soft sighs and warm knitted jackets, heated benches by the stove – as if you’ve died, but you’re still alive: the best of both worlds!
Well, brother, enough of my fibs and nonsense, it’s time for bed! You know, I sometimes wake up at night and go and take a look at him. But never mind that, everything’s fine.
So don’t you worry, either, but if you feel like it, you take a look too. And if you notice anything at all – delirium for instance, or a temperature, or whatever – wake me up at once. Though I can’t see it happening . . .’
