Crime and Punishment (27 page)

‘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 some
hors 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.

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 lack of personality,
1
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.