II
It was a worried, serious Razumikhin who woke some time before eight the next morning. He found himself suddenly plagued by a multitude of new and unexpected uncertainties. Never before had he imagined waking in such a state. He remembered yesterday’s events down to the very last detail and realized that something out of the ordinary had happened to him, that he had absorbed an impression the like of which he had never known or knew existed. At the same time he was all too aware that the dream that had taken fire in his mind was utterly unrealistic – so unrealistic he even felt ashamed of it and hurriedly turned his attention to the other, more pressing concerns and uncertainties bestowed on him by the previous day, ‘may it be forever cursed’.
Most appalling of all was the memory of how ‘loathsome and vile’ he’d proved himself to be, not just because he’d been drunk but because, jealous fool that he was, he’d rushed to abuse the girl’s fiancé to her face, taking advantage of her plight while knowing little not only of their mutual relations and obligations, but even about the man himself. And anyway, what right did he have to judge him so hastily and recklessly? Who’d asked him to act as judge and jury? And could such a creature as Avdotya Romanovna really give herself to an unworthy man for money? So he, too, must have his virtues. Those rooms?
How could he have known what they were like? He was preparing an apartment for them, after all . . . ugh, how loathsome! And being drunk was no justification! A stupid excuse that only degraded him all the more! There’s truth in wine, and now that truth had all spilled out, i.e., ‘all the filth of my coarse and jealous heart’! And how could he,
Razumikhin, have even permitted himself such a dream?
Who was he next to a girl like that – he, a rowdy drunk, yesterday’s show-off? ‘Even mentioning us in the same breath is laughable, outrageous!’ Thinking this, Razumikhin turned a desperate shade of red, when suddenly, right on cue, at that very same second, yesterday’s words on the stairs came back to him loud and clear: that stuff about the landlady being jealous of Avdotya Romanovna . . . This really was the final straw. He struck his fist with full force against the kitchen stove, injuring his hand and dislodging a brick. ‘Of course,’ he muttered to himself a minute later, filled with a kind of self-abasement, ‘nothing will ever be able to paper over so much filth . . . which means there’s no use even thinking about it, and I should present myself in silence, and . . . discharge my duties . . . in silence and . . . and not beg for forgiveness, and not say a word and . . . and, of course, all is now lost!’ And yet, getting dressed, he inspected his attire more thoroughly than usual. He had no other clothes, and even if he had, he might not have worn them – ‘just because’. Be that as it may, he couldn’t carry on being so outrageous, so slovenly: he’d no right to offend other people’s feelings, especially when those same people needed him and were themselves inviting him round. He gave his clothes a thorough clean with a brush. His linen was always presentable: he was very particular on that score.
His ablutions that morning were vigorous – he got some soap from Nastasya and washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to deciding whether or not to shave (Praskovya Pavlovna had some first-rate razors left over after the death of her late husband, Mr Zarnitsyn), the question was answered fiercely in the negative: ‘I’ll go as I am! What if they thought I’d shaved for . . . ? They’d be bound to think that! Not on my life!
‘And . . . and the main thing is I’m so coarse, so filthy, with manners fit for the tavern; and . . . and so what if I know that I’m actually half-decent, despite all this . . . well, is that anything to be so proud of? Every man should be decent. It’s the least you can expect and . . . but still, I’ve not forgotten that I have the odd skeleton in my closet, too . . . Nothing too disgraceful, but still! . . . And as for some of the ideas I’ve had! H’m . . . and to set all this alongside Avdotya Romanovna! That’s a good one! Well, so what?
Now I’ll go out of my way to be filthy, lewd, a man of the tavern! Now more than ever!’ He was interrupted in full flow by Zosimov, who’d spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna’s drawing room.
Zosimov was hurrying home and wanted to look in on the patient on his way out. Razumikhin informed him that he was sleeping like a log. Zosimov gave instructions not to wake him. He promised to call round after ten. ‘That’s assuming he’s home,’ he added. ‘A devil of a business! Try being a doctor when you can’t tell your patient what to do! Perhaps you can tell me: willhe go over to them or willthey come over to him?’ ‘The second, I think,’ answered Razumikhin, grasping the purpose of the question, ‘and they’ll be talking about family matters, of course. I’ll make myself scarce. Naturally, you have more right to be there than me, being a doctor.’ ‘I’m hardly his confessor, either. I’ll arrive and I’ll be gone. I’ve plenty else to be getting on with.’ ‘There’s one thing bothering me,’ interrupted Razumikhin, frowning. ‘Yesterday, when I was drunk, I blurted out some stupid things to him on the way home . . . about this and that . . . including your fear that he might be . . . prone to insanity . . .’ ‘You blurted that out to the ladies, too, yesterday.’ ‘I know – completely idiotic! Don’t mind if you punch me for it! But were you serious about that?’
‘Serious? Please! You described him yourself as a monomaniac when you brought me to see him . . . And then yesterday we added more fuel to the flames, or rather you did, with those stories . . . about that painter. A fine topic of conversation when that might have been just the thing that drove him out of his mind! If I’d known the details of what happened in the bureau that time, if I’d known what that suspicious rascal had said to offend him . . . H’m . . . Then I’d never have allowed such a conversation yesterday.
These monomaniacs make mountains out of molehills; in their minds, the wildest inventions take on flesh and blood . . . From what I can remember of Za-metov’s story yesterday, at least half of this business has now become clear to me. And so what? I know a case of one hypochondriac, forty years old, who couldn’t put up with being mocked every day, over dinner, by an eight-year-old boy, and killed him! And what do we have here? A man in rags, an insolent lieutenant, incipient sickness, and a 5suspicion like that! Addressed to a crazed hypochondriac!
Who happens to be madly, exceptionally vain! Perhaps this is where it all began – the sickness, I mean! Too bloody right! . . . That Zametov, by the way, really is a sweet little boy, only, h’m . . . shame he went and said all that yesterday. He can never keep his mouth shut!’
‘But who did he tell? Me, you, and?’
‘Porfiry.’ ‘So he told Porfiry. So what?’ ‘By the way, do you have any influence with them, the mother and sister? We’d better be careful with him today . . .’ ‘They’ll get over it!’ Razumikhin reluctantly replied. ‘And what’s he got against this Luzhin? He’s a man of means and she doesn’t seem to mind him . . . and they haven’t a copeck between them, eh?’
‘Why all these questions?’ shouted Razumikhin irritably. ‘How should I know how many copecks they have? Ask them and maybe they’ll tell you . . .’ ‘Ugh, what an idiot you are sometimes! That’s the drink still talking . . . Goodbye then; and thank Praskovya Pavlovna on my behalf for the bed. She’s locked herself in and didn’t respond to myBonjour, though she got up at seven and had the samovar brought in to her straight from the kitchen . . . I wasn’t granted the honour of beholding her.’ Razumikhin arrived at Bakaleyev’s house at nine o’clock sharp. The two ladies had been waiting for him for a good long time in a state of hysterical impatience. They’d been up since seven, if not earlier. He walked in, dark as the night, and bowed awkwardly, which immediately made him angry – with himself, needless to say. His fears were ill- founded: Pulkheria Alexandrovna fairly threw herself at him, seized him by both hands and all but kissed them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but at that moment even this haughty face expressed so much gratitude and friendship, such total and unexpected respect (no mocking glances, no involuntary, ill-concealed contempt!) that he would have found it easier, in all seriousness, to have been greeted with abuse – for this was all far too embarrassing.
Luckily, a topic of conversation lay ready and waiting, and he grasped it eagerly.
Hearing that Raskolnikov hadn’t woken up yet, though everything was ‘absolutely fine’, Pulkheria Alexandrovna announced that this was a good thing, too, because she ‘desperately, desperately’ needed to talk everything over in advance. Razumikhin was invited to take tea with them, as they’d been waiting for him before having theirs. Avdotya Romanovna rang, a filthy ragamuffin appeared, and tea was ordered and eventually served, but in so filthy and disgraceful a manner that the ladies felt positively ashamed. Razumikhin was on the verge of laying into
Bakaleyev’s rooms but, remembering about Luzhin, fell into an embarrassed silence and was terribly relieved when at last Pulkheria Alexandrovna’s questions began flowing thick and fast.
Responding to them, he spoke for three quarters of an hour, through continual interruption and interrogation, and managed to impart all the most crucial and essential facts known to him from the last year of Rodion Romanovich’s life, concluding with a detailed account of his illness. All the same, he left out whatever needed to be left out, including the scene in the police bureau, with all its consequences. His listeners hung on his every word; but just when he thought he’d reached the end and satisfied their demands, it turned out that for them he had barely begun. ‘Now tell me, tell me, what is your opinion . . . ? Oh, forgive me, I still don’t know your name,’ rushed Pulkheria
Alexandrovna. ‘Dmitry Prokofich.’ ‘Well then, Dmitry Prokofich, I am desperately, desperately keen to learn about how he . . . in general . . . sees things now. I mean – how should I put it, put it best? – I mean, well, what does he like and what doesn’t he like? Is he always so very irritable? What does he wish for, as it were, and, as it were, dream about? What influences is he subject to right now? In a word, I would like . . .’ ‘Oh, Mama, how could anyone reply to all that in one go?’ remarked Dunya. ‘But heavens, I could never, ever have expected to find him like this, Dmitry Prokofich.’ ‘That’s very understandable, ma’am,’ replied Dmitry Prokofich. ‘My mother’s dead, but my uncle comes here once a year and he nearly always fails to recognize me, even physically, though he’s clever enough; so just think how much must have changed in the three years that you’ve been apart. What can I say? I’ve known Rodion for a
year and a half: he’s sullen, gloomy, haughty, proud; recently (and perhaps much earlier, too) he’s paranoid and hypochondriac. Generous and kind. Doesn’t like to express his feelings and would sooner do something cruel than say what’s in his heart. Sometimes, though, he’s not hypochondriac at all, just cold and unfeeling to an almost inhuman degree, as if two contrasting characters were taking turns inside him. And he can be terribly untalkative!
Never has time for anyone, finds everyone a nuisance, yet lounges around doing nothing. Not given to mockery, but not through lack of wit – rather, it’s as if his time is too precious to waste on such trifles. Never listens to the end.
Never interested in what everyone else is interested in.
Terribly conceited and not, perhaps, without cause. What else? . . . If you ask me, your arrival will have a very salutary effect on him.’ ‘Pray God!’ cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna, worried to death by Razumikhin’s report about her Rodya.
Now, at long last, Razumikhin looked up at Avdotya Romanovna with a touch more confidence. He’d glanced at her often in the course of the conversation, but fleetingly, for a mere instant, before immediately looking away. One moment Avdotya Romanovna would sit down at the table and listen closely, the next she would get up again and start pacing the room, as was her habit, from one corner to the other, folding her arms, pressing her lips together and occasionally posing a question of her own, while still walking, deep in thought. She, too, had the habit of not listening to the end. She was wearing a darkish dress of thin material, with a white transparent scarf tied around her neck. It was impossible for Razumikhin not to notice at once the desperate poverty in which both women lived.
Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he would not, it seems, have been remotely afraid of her; but now, precisely because her clothes were so poor, perhaps, and because he could no longer ignore the meanness of her
surroundings, terror took root in his heart and he began to fear his every word, his every gesture, and this, of course, was rather inhibiting for a man already lacking in confidence. ‘You’ve said many interesting things about my brother’s character and . . . you’ve spoken without prejudice. That’s good. I thought that perhaps you revered him,’ Avdotya Romanovna observed with a smile. ‘It’s also true, it seems, that he needs a woman at his side,’ she added pensively. ‘I didn’t say that, though you may be right there too, only
. . .’ ‘Only what?’ ‘Well, he doesn’t love anyone, and perhaps he never will,’
Razumikhin snapped. ‘He’s not capable of loving, you mean?’ ‘You know, Avdotya Romanovna, you’re just like your brother, in every possible way!’ he suddenly blurted out, surprising even himself, then immediately recalled everything he’d just told her about her brother and turned red as a lobster in his embarrassment. Avdotya Romanovna couldn’t help laughing aloud at the sight of him. ‘You might both be mistaken about Rodya,’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna intervened, a little piqued. ‘I don’t mean now, Dunechka. Pyotr Petrovich may be wrong in what he writes in his letter . . . and you and I may have been wrong in our suppositions, but you can’t imagine, Dmitry Prokofich, how fanciful and – how should I put it? – capricious he is. I never had much confidence in his character, even when he was only fifteen. I’m quite sure that even now he is capable of suddenly doing something to himself the like of which no one else would ever even think of . . . To take just one example, did you hear about how, a year and a half ago, he astonished and shocked me with the bright idea of marrying that girl – what’s her name again? – the daughter of Zarnitsyna, his landlady? It almost finished me off.’
‘Do you know about that story?’ asked Avdotya Romanovna. ‘Do you imagine,’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna went on heatedly, ‘that anything would have stopped him then – my tears, my pleas, my illness, my death, perhaps, from grief, our beggary? He’d have stepped right over every obstacle without a second thought. But does he really not love us?’ ‘He never said anything to me himself about this story,’ replied Razumikhin warily, ‘but I did hear something about it from Mrs Zarnitsyna, who’s not exactly a chatterbox herself, and what I heard was, you might say, a little strange . . .’ ‘But what, what did you hear?’ both women asked at once. ‘Nothing so very extraordinary. I merely learned that this marriage, which was all set up and fell through only because of the death of the bride, was not to Mrs Zarnitsyna’s liking at all . . . Besides, apparently the bride wasn’t even pretty; in fact they say she was ugly . . . and very sickly and . . . and strange . . . though not, it seems, without certain qualities. There must have been some qualities or else one can’t make head or tail of it . . . No dowry, either, though he wouldn’t have been counting on one anyway . . . Well, it’s hard to know what to make of a case like that.’ ‘I’m sure she was a worthy girl,’ remarked Avdotya Romanovna tersely. ‘Forgive me God, but I was glad when she died, though I couldn’t say who would have ruined whom,’ concluded Pulkheria Alexandrovna; then, hesitating and glancing again and again in the direction of Dunya, to the latter’s obvious displeasure, she warily launched into another interrogation about yesterday’s scene between Rodya and Luzhin. This event evidently worried her more than anything, even terrified her. Razumikhin went over it all again, in detail, but this time he added his own conclusion:
he directly accused Raskolnikov of having set out to insult Pyotr Petrovich in advance, making very few allowances this time round for his sickness. ‘He thought this up while he was still well,’ he added. ‘That’s what I think, too,’ said Pulkheria Alexandrovna, looking devastated. But she was very struck by the fact that Razumikhin had spoken so cautiously on this occasion about Pyotr Petrovich, almost respectfully. Avdotya Romanovna was struck by it, too. ‘So that’s what you think of Pyotr Petrovich?’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna asked, unable to restrain herself. ‘I can hold no other opinion about your daughter’s husband-to-be,’ Razumikhin answered firmly and with feeling, ‘and it’s not just vulgar courtesy that makes me say so, but because . . . because . . . well, if only because Avdotya Romanovna has herself, of her own free will, seen fit to choose him. And if I was so rude about him yesterday, then only because I was filthy drunk and . . . crazy. Yes, completely crazy, out of my mind . . . and today I’m ashamed of myself!’ He reddened and said no more.
Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not break the silence.
She hadn’t said a word from the moment the conversation turned to the topic of Luzhin.
Meanwhile her mother, without her support, was evidently in two minds about something. Finally, stammering and glancing again and again at her daughter, Pulkheria Alexandrovna announced that she was extremely concerned about one particular circumstance. ‘You see, Dmitry Prokofich . . . ,’ she began. ‘I’ll be completely frank with Dmitry Prokofich, shall I, Dunechka?’ ‘Yes, of course, Mama,’ Avdotya Romanovna encouraged her. ‘This is how it is,’ she hurried, as if suddenly liberated by this permission to share her grief. ‘Today, very early this morning, we received a note from Pyotr Petrovich in reply to our notification yesterday of our arrival. Yesterday, you
see, he was supposed to meet us, as he’d promised, at the station. Instead, some servant or other was dispatched
there to meet us and show us the way to this address, and a message was conveyed from Pyotr Petrovich informing us that he would visit us here this morning. Instead, this
morning we received this note from him . . . It would be better if you read it yourself. There is one point that worries me greatly . . . You’ll see for yourself which point I mean, and . . . please be completely frank, Dmitry
Prokofich! You know Rodya’s character better than anyone and are best placed to advise us. I should warn you that Dunechka has already decided everything, straight away,
but I, well, I’m still not sure what to do and . . . and was waiting for you.’ Razumikhin unfolded the note, which bore the previous day’s date, and read the following:
Dear Madam, Pulkheria Alexandrovna,
I have the honour of informing you that owing to the occurrence of unforeseen delays I was unable to greet you off the train, having dispatched to that end a highly competent person. Equally I must forgo the honour of meeting you tomorrow morning, owing to pressing business in the Senate and so as not to disturb your family reunion with your son and Avdotya Romanovna’s with her brother. I shall have the honour of visiting you and paying you my respects in your apartment on the morrow, at 8 p.m. sharp, moreover I take the liberty of adducing an earnest and, let me add, very firm request that Rodion Romanovich not be present at our general meeting, in light of the unprecedented and discourteous offence which he caused me yesterday during my visit to his sickbed, and, aside from that, having an urgent need to discuss a certain point with you personally in depth, regarding which I desire to know your personal interpretation. I have the honour of giving prior notification that if, contrary to my request, I should meet Rodion Romanovich, I shall be obliged to take my leave without delay – and then you’ll have no one to blame but yourselves. For I write in the supposition that Rodion Romanovich, having appeared so very sick during my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later, and therefore, on leaving his premises, may present himself at yours. I have received confirmation of this with my own eyes, in the apartment of a drunk who was run over by horses and died as a result, to whose daughter, a girl of notorious conduct, he gave as much as twenty-five roubles yesterday, on the pretext of a funeral, which fact greatly astonished me, knowing how
much of a struggle it was for you to assemble this sum. By these presents, with an expression of my especial respect to the esteemed Avdotya Romanovna, I ask you to accept the respectful devotion of
your humble servant P. Luzhin
‘So what should I do, Dmitry Prokofich?’ began Pulkheria Alexandrovna, on the verge of tears. ‘How on earth can I suggest to Rodya not to come? He was so insistent yesterday that we reject Pyotr Petrovich, and here he is under instructions not to be accepted himself! He’ll come on purpose when he finds out . . . and then what?’ ‘Do as Avdotya Romanovna has decided,’ Razumikhin answered calmly and without hesitation. ‘Good grief! She says . . . she says God knows what and she doesn’t explain the point of it! She says it is better, or rather not better but for some reason absolutely essential for Rodya also to come specially today at eight o’clock and for them to meet without fail . . . But I didn’t even want to show him the letter – I wanted to find some cunning way, through you, of stopping him coming . . . because he’s so very irritable . . . And I don’t understand any of this anyway – what drunkard, what daughter, and how did he manage to give away to this daughter all the remaining money . . . which . . . ?’ ‘Which was obtained at such cost to yourself, Mama,’ added Avdotya Romanovna. ‘He wasn’t himself yesterday,’ said Razumikhin pensively. ‘If you’d heard some of the things he was saying in the tavern yesterday, clever as they were . . . h’m! He did say something to me when we were walking home about some chap who’d died and some girl or other, but I didn’t understand a word of it . . . But then I wasn’t up to much yesterday, either . . .’ ‘We’re best off going to see him ourselves, Mama. I’m sure we’ll know what to do as soon as we get there. And
just look at the time – goodness me! Gone ten already!’ she cried, after glancing at her splendid gold, enamelled timepiece, which hung from her neck on a fine Venetian chain and was utterly out of keeping with the rest of her outfit. ‘Present from the fiancé,’ thought Razumikhin. ‘Oh, we must go! . . . Time to go, Dunechka, time to go!’ fussed Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘He’ll think we’re still angry from yesterday, if it’s taken us so long. Good grief!’ Saying this, she hurriedly threw on a cape and put on her hat. Dunechka also got herself ready. Her gloves were not only worn, they were in shreds, as Razumikhin noticed, yet the patent poverty of their attire gave both women an air of particular dignity, as is always the way with those who know how to dress in pauper’s clothes. Razumikhin looked with reverence at Dunechka and felt proud to be accompanying her. ‘The queen,’ he thought to himself, ‘who 6 darned her own stockingsin prison must have looked every inch the part at that moment, even more so than during her most lavish public ceremonies.’ ‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Pulkheria Alexandrovna. ‘Could I ever have imagined fearing a meeting with my son, my sweet Rodya, as I fear it now? . . . I’m scared, Dmitry Prokofich!’ she added, with a timid glance. ‘Don’t be scared, dear Mama,’ said Dunya, kissing her, ‘you should have faith in him. I do.’ ‘Good grief! I do have faith in him, but I didn’t sleep a
wink last night!’ cried the poor woman.
They went outside. ‘You know, Dunechka, just as soon as I snatched a little sleep this morning, I suddenly dreamt of Marfa Petrovna, God rest her soul . . . dressed all in white . . . She came up to me and took my hand while shaking her head at me, so very seriously, as if in disapproval . . . What am I to make of it? Good grief, Dmitry Prokofich, you still don’t know: Marfa Petrovna has died!’
‘No, I didn’t know. Which Marfa Petrovna?’ ‘Quite suddenly! And just imagine . . .’ ‘Later, Mama,’ Dunya broke in. ‘After all, the gentleman still doesn’t know who Marfa Petrovna is.’ ‘Oh, you don’t? There was I thinking you already knew everything. Please forgive me, Dmitry Prokofich, I’m at my wits’ end. Truly, I think of you as our Providence, and that’s why I was so sure you already knew everything. I think of you as one of the family . . . Don’t be angry with me for speaking like this. Good grief, what’s happened to your right hand? Have you hurt it?’ ‘Yes, I hurt it,’ muttered Razumikhin, suddenly happy. ‘Sometimes I speak rather too openly and Dunya has to prod me . . . But how on earth can he live in such a tiny cell? Has he woken up, though? And that woman, his landlady, calls that a room? Listen, you say he doesn’t like to display his feelings, so perhaps I’ll only annoy him with my . . . foibles? . . . Can’t you teach me, Dmitry Prokofich?
How should I act with him? I’m all at sea.’ ‘Don’t keep asking him about anything if you see him frowning, and in particular don’t ask him too much about his health. He doesn’t like it.’ ‘Oh, Dmitry Prokofich, how hard it is to be a mother! But here’s that stairwell . . . Such a horrid stairwell!’ ‘Mama, you’ve even gone pale. Calm yourself, my dearest,’ said Dunya, stroking her. ‘He ought to be happy to see you, and here you are tormenting yourself,’ she added, with a flash of her eyes. ‘Wait, I’ll go ahead to see if he’s woken up yet.’ The ladies set off slowly up the stairs after Razumikhin, and when they drew level with the landlady’s door on the fourth floor they noticed that it was just slightly ajar and that two quick black eyes were examining them both from the dark. When their eyes met, the door suddenly slammed shut with such a bang that Pulkheria Alexandrovna nearly screamed with fright.
