Crime and Punishment (33 page)

‘I wouldn't do it like that,’ he said from far away. ‘This is how I'd go about it: I'd count the first thousand about three or four times from each end, examining every note, and then I'd move on to the second thousand; I'd start counting it, wait until I got to the middle and then take out a fifty-rouble note, say, hold it up to the light, turn it round, hold it up to the light again – what if it were a fake? “I've learned to be wary,” I'd say. “My aunt lost twenty-five roubles the other day like that”; and I'd tell the whole story right there and then. And after I'd started counting the third thousand, “No,” I'd say – “I'm sorry, I think I made a mistake when I was counting the seventh hundred of the second thousand.” I'd be seized by doubt, give up counting the third thousand, and go back to counting the second again – and go on like that until I'd counted all five. And when I'd finished, I'd take a note from the fifth and a note from the second, and hold them up to the light, as before, and again with a dubious look, “change those two, please” – and by then the sweat would be streaming down the cashier's face so badly that he'd do anything to be free of me! When I was finally through, I'd walk off, open the door, but then say, “No, I'm sorry,” go back to the counter again, ask some question or other, request an explanation, perhaps – that's the way I'd go about it!’

‘Good Lord, those are terrible things you're saying!’ Zamyotov remarked, laughing. ‘But that's all just words, and in real life I bet you'd come to grief. Indeed, I'll go so far as to say that not only you or I, but even a hardened, desperate man wouldn't be able to rely on his powers. And one doesn't have to look far for an example – here's one: in our district an old woman's been murdered. I mean, this fellow must really have been a desperate sort of chap, he did it in broad daylight, ran every risk he could possibly have taken, got away with it by some miracle – but even
his
hands shook: he didn't manage to get his hands on the money, he couldn't go through with it; the facts of the case are quite plain…’

Raskolnikov almost took offence.

‘Plain? Well, off you go right now and catch him, then!’

‘What's the point? He'll be caught.’

‘By whom? You? Who are you to catch him? You'll have your work cut out! I mean, what's the thing one always looks for first? It's whether a man's spending money or not, isn't it? One moment he doesn't have a bean, and the next he's suddenly splashing out everywhere – so it stands to reason it must be him! Any schoolboy could fool you that way, if he felt like it!’

‘The fact remains that they all do it,’ Zamyotov replied. ‘A man will commit some cunning murder, risk his own life, and then go shooting off to a pot-house. It's the spending that catches them out. They're not all cunning chaps like you. You'd never go to a drinking-house, I imagine?’

Raskolnikov knit his brows and gave Zamyotov a fixed look.

‘I suppose by this time you're getting into the swing of it, and want to know how I'd have acted in this case?’ he asked with a disgruntled air.

‘I would,’ Zamyotov replied seriously and firmly. His words and appearance were becoming just a little too serious.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Very well. This is how I'd have acted,’ Raskolnikov began, once again suddenly bringing his face close to Zamyotov's, again looking steadily at him, and again speaking in a whisper, so that this time Zamyotov actually flinched. ‘This is what I'd have done: I'd have taken the money and the valuables and once I'd got away I wouldn't have looked in anywhere but would have immediately gone to some remote place where there were just a lot of fences, and practically nobody about – a kitchen garden, or somewhere like that. In this yard I'd have picked out beforehand some heavy building block of a pood or more in weight, somewhere in a corner, by the fence, a block that had lain there since the time the house was built, perhaps; I'd have lifted up that block – underneath it there'd be bound to be a hole – and into the hole I'd have put all the valuables and money. Then I'd have replaced the block in the position it had lain in before, pressed it down with my foot, and gone away. And I
wouldn't have taken the stuff for a year, not for two years, or even three – they could look as hard as they liked! They'd never find it!’

‘You're crazy,’ Zamyotov said, also practically in a whisper, and for some reason he suddenly moved away from Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov's eyes had begun to glitter; he had gone terribly pale; his upper lip was trembling and twitching. He leaned as close to Zamyotov as he could and began to move his lips without saying anything; he knew what he was doing, but could not control himself. The terrible words, like the door bolt that day, were leaping up and down on his lips: in a moment they would break loose; in a moment he would let them out, in a moment he would say them aloud!

‘What if it were I who murdered Lizaveta and the old woman?’ he said suddenly and – recovered his grip.

Zamyotov stared at him wildly for an instant and turned as pale as a sheet. His face was distorted by a smile.

‘Is this really possible?’ he said in a voice that could scarcely be heard.

Raskolnikov gave him a look of malicious hostility.

‘Admit that you believed me! You did, didn't you?’

‘Of course I didn't! And now I believe you even less!’ Zamyotov said, hastily.

‘Caught you at last! The man of the world's been stymied! You must have believed me before if now you “believe me even less”.’

‘I didn't, I tell you!’ Zamyotov exclaimed, obviously embarrassed. ‘Is that why you've been trying to frighten me – to lead me up to this?’

‘So you don't believe me? Then what were you talking about in my absence, after I'd left the bureau that day? And why did “Lieutenant Gunpowder” question me after I'd recovered from my faint? Hey, you!’ he shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking his cap. ‘How much does mine come to?’

‘Thirty copecks in all, sir,’ the waiter replied, hurrying across.

‘Here's twenty copecks extra for your vodka. Good heavens, what a lot of money!’ he said, stretching out a trembling hand
full of banknotes in Zamyotov's direction. ‘Redbacks, blue-backs, twenty-five roubles! Where did they come from? And where did my new clothes come from? I mean, you know I hadn't a copeck! I expect you've already interrogated my landlady… Well, that's enough!
Assez cause
!
⁷
Goodbye… Delighted to have met you!…’

He went out, trembling all over with a kind of wild hysteria, in which there was at the same time an element of unendurable pleasure – he was, however, morose and horribly tired. His features were distorted, as after a fit of some kind. Quickly, his exhaustion grew greater. His energies would suddenly be aroused and spring into life at the very first impulse, at the first stimulating sensation, and would ebb away just as quickly, as the sensation itself ebbed away.

Meanwhile, Zamyotov, now left alone, sat for a long time in the same spot, pondering things in his mind. Without intending to, Raskolnikov had upset all his calculations with regard to a certain point, and had definitively confirmed his opinion.

‘That Ilya Petrovich is a numskull,’ he decided at last.

No sooner had Raskolnikov opened the door on to the street than suddenly, right there on the forecourt, he collided with Razumikhin, who was on his way in. Neither observed the other, even a single step away, with the result that they almost banged their heads together. For a moment or two they gave each other a measuring look. Razumikhin was utterly dumbfounded, but suddenly anger, real anger, flashed threateningly in his eyes.

‘So this is where you've got to!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘You've absconded from your sickbed! And there was I looking for him under the sofa! We even went up to the attic! I nearly gave Nastasya a dusting because of you… And this is where he is! Rodya, my lad, what's the meaning of it? Tell me the truth – all of it! Confess, do you hear?’

‘The meaning of it is that I'm heartily sick of the lot of you, and I want to be on my own,’ Raskolnikov answered calmly.

‘On your own? When you can't even walk yet, when your face is as white as a sheet and you're out of breath? You fool!… What have you been doing in the “Crystal Palace”? Confess this instant!’

‘Leave me alone!’ Raskolnikov said, and tried to walk past. This drove Razumikhin into frenzy; he seized Raskolnikov firmly by the shoulder.

‘Leave you alone? You dare to tell me to leave you alone? Do you know what I'm going to do with you now? I'm going to pick you up, put you under my arm, take you home and place you under lock and key!’

‘Listen, Razumikhin,’ Raskolnikov began quietly and, it appeared, in a state of total calm. ‘Are you really unable to see that I don't want your good deeds? And what is this desire of yours to do good deeds for people who… spit upon them? Who, if the truth be told, find them a serious burden on their endurance? I mean, why did you bother to track me down when I first fell ill? What if I'd been only too happy to die? After all, surely I've made it plain enough to you today that you've been tormenting me… that I'm fed up with you! You seem to have a positive desire to torment people! I do assure you that all this is seriously getting in the way of my recovery, because it's a constant irritation to me. I mean, Zosimov actually left earlier on today so as not to irritate me. So for God's sake leave me alone, too! In any case, what right do you have to keep me there by force? Surely you can't possibly fail to see that I'm speaking with all my wits about me now? Tell me, what, what can I do to stop you pestering me and doing good deeds for me? I'm willing to admit that I'm mean and ungrateful, only leave off, all of you, for God's sake, leave off, leave off, leave off!’

He had begun calmly, savouring the mass of venom he was about to unleash, but ended in a state of frenzy, gasping for breath, as he had done earlier, with Luzhin.

Razumikhin stood still, thought for a moment, and then released his hand.

‘Then clear off and go to the devil,’ he said quietly, and almost reflectively. ‘Wait!’ he roared suddenly, as Raskolnikov was about to move off. ‘Listen to what I've got to say. I hereby declare to you that you're all, every last one of you, a crowd of windbags and show-offs! As soon as you come up against some pathetic little bit of suffering you fuss over it like a hen with an egg! And even then you steal from other authors. There's not a
spark of independent life in you! You're made of spermacetic ointment, and you've got whey in your veins instead of blood! I wouldn't trust a single one of you! The first thing you do in every circumstance is to find out how
not
to behave like a human being! Wa-it!’ he shouted with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was once again preparing to move off. ‘Hear me through! You know, I'm having a housewarming party tonight, in fact, some of the guests may already have arrived, and I've left my uncle there – I just dashed round here just now – to let people in. So look, if you're not a fool, a vulgar fool, an arrant fool, not some translation from a foreign original… you see, Rodya, I admit you're a clever fellow, but you're a fool! – so look here, if you don't want to be a fool, you'd better come over to my place this evening and sit at my party table instead of wearing your boots out for nothing. Now that you're up and about you've no alternative! I'd wheel up a nice soft armchair for you, the landlords have one… A sip of tea, some company… No, I know – I'll put you on the couch – you'll be able to lie down, but still be in our midst… And Zosimov will be there. What do you say – will you come?’

‘No.’

‘R-r-rubbish!’ Razumikhin exclaimed in impatience. ‘What do you know about it? You can't answer for yourself. And you're totally unaware of it… I've spat and fought with people a thousand times exactly like that, but I've always gone running back to them again afterwards… You get ashamed – and go back to the person! So remember: Pochinkov's Tenements, third floor…’

‘You know, Mr Razumikhin, I do believe you'd let a man beat you up just for the satisfaction of doing him a favour.’

‘Who? Me? I'd put his nose out of joint at the mere suggestion! Pochinkov's Tenements, number forty-seven, the apartment of civil servant Babushkin…’

‘I shan't come, Razumikhin!’ Raskolnikov turned round and walked away.

‘I bet you do!’ Razumikhin shouted after him. ‘Otherwise you… Otherwise I don't want to know you. Hey! Wait! Is Zamyotov in there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you meet him?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And did you speak to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about? Oh, to the devil with you, don't tell me, then. Pochinkov's, number forty-seven, Babushkin's place – remember, now!’

Raskolnikov walked along to Sadovaya Street, and then turned the corner. Meditatively, Razumikhin watched him go. At last, with a wave of his hand, he went inside the building, but stopped halfway up the stairs.

‘The devil take it!’ he thought, almost aloud. ‘He talks rationally enough, but it's as if… Why, I'm a fool, too! Don't madmen talk rationally? This was what Zosimov said he was afraid of, if I'm not mistaken!’ He tapped his head with his forefinger. ‘I mean, what if… Oh, how could I have let him go off on his own like that? He may drown himself… Damn it, how stupid I was… This will never do!’

And back he went running in order to catch Raskolnikov up, but by now the scent had grown cold. He spat, and with rapid steps returned to the ‘Crystal Palace’ in order to ask Zamyotov some questions.

Raskolnikov had gone straight to —sky Bridge. He stood in the middle of it, by the railing, leaning on it with both elbows, and began to look far into the distance. After he had taken his leave of Razumikhin he had grown so weak that he had hardly been able to drag himself here. He felt like sitting or lying down somewhere, out in the street. As he leaned over the water, he gazed absent-mindedly at the last pink reflection of the sunset, at the row of buildings that loomed darkly in the thickening twilight, at one far-off window in an attic somewhere on the left bank, gleaming as though aflame from the sun's last ray which had struck it for a moment, at the darkening water of the Canal – and seemed to be staring at that water with attention. At last red circles began to spin in his eyes, the buildings began to move, passers-by, embankments, carriages – all began to revolve and dance in a circle. Suddenly he gave a shudder,
possibly saved once more from fainting by a wild, outlandish apparition. He sensed that someone was standing beside him, to the right of him; he glanced round – and saw a woman, tall, with a kerchief on her head, her face oblong, yellow and haggard and her eyes reddish and sunken. She was looking straight at him, but was obviously aware of nothing and unable to tell if anyone was there. Suddenly she leaned her right elbow on the railing, raised her right leg and let it flop over the edge, then got her left leg across and threw herself into the Canal. The dirty water sagged, and swallowed up its victim in a trice, but a moment later the drowning woman floated up again, and was carried off slowly downstream, her head and legs in the water, and her back out of it, with her skirt whipped up and ballooning on the surface like a pillow.