Crime and Punishment (19 page)

‘Yes . . . ,' said Raskolnikov, forcing out a reply and looking away, well aware that it was in his interests to keep the conversation going.

‘Isn't that right?' cried Razumikhin, visibly delighted to have
received a reply. ‘But nor is she clever, eh? A thoroughly, thoroughly surprising character! You know, brother, I barely know what to make of her . . . I bet she's the wrong side of forty. Thirty-six, she says, and it's her sacred right to do so. Let me tell you, though: I judge her in a largely intellectual, purely metaphysical way: think of us as a kind of emblem – puts your algebra to shame! I don't understand the first thing about it! But enough of all this drivel. The fact of the matter is this: seeing that you were no longer a student, that you'd lost your lessons and your clothes, and that after the death of the young lady there was no point treating you like family any more, she suddenly got scared; and seeing as you, for your part, were holed up in your room and had started ignoring her, she came up with the idea of kicking you out. She'd been considering it for some time, in fact, only she wanted her money back. What's more, you'd assured her yourself that Mama would pay . . .'

‘I said that because I'm a scoundrel . . . My mother is almost reduced to begging herself . . . and I lied in order to stay on here and . . . be fed,' said Raskolnikov, pronouncing the words loudly and distinctly.

‘Very sensible of you, too. The only problem was this: who should show up but Mr Chebarov, court counsellor and all-round man of action. Pashenka wouldn't have come up with any of this without him – she's far too coy; but a man of action isn't coy and his first action, of course, was to ask: any hope of enforcing the promissory note? The reply: yes, thanks to a mama who's ready to dip into her hundred-and-twenty-five-rouble pension to save her Rodya, even if it means her going hungry, and thanks to a sister ready to sell herself into bondage for her brother. That was enough for Chebarov to be getting on with . . . Why are you fidgeting? I know all your secrets now, brother – that's what comes of you being so open with Pashenka when you were still part of the family – and I'm telling you all this now because I care about you . . . That's the thing, you see: a man of honesty and feeling opens his heart, while a man of action listens and whistles, then gobbles him up. So she let him have this promissory note by way of payment, and Chebarov made a formal claim without batting an eye. When I learned about this I was on the verge of unleashing an electric stream on him as well, just to clear my conscience, but that was when Pashenka and I had started getting on so well, so I called an end to the whole business, right at its source, by vouching that you would pay. I vouched for you, brother, do you hear? We
called Chebarov over, stuffed ten roubles down his throat and got the bit of paper back, which I have the honour of presenting to you – your word is enough for them now. So here, take the thing, with a good rip in it from me, just like it's supposed to have.'

Razumikhin placed the promissory note on the table. Raskolnikov took one glance at it and, without saying a word, turned towards the wall. Even Razumikhin smarted.

‘I see, brother,' he said after a minute, ‘that I've made an idiot of myself again. Thought I might distract you with some small talk, but all I seem to have done is spoil your mood.'

‘Was it you I couldn't recognize when I was raving?' asked Raskolnikov, who had also been silent for a minute or so and was still looking away.

‘Me, and it drove you into a frenzy, especially when I brought Zametov round once.'

‘Zametov? . . . The head clerk? . . . What for?' Raskolnikov turned round swiftly, staring straight at Razumikhin.

‘Calm down now . . . No need to get excited. He wanted to get to know you. It was his idea, because we'd been talking about you . . . How else would I know so much about you? He's a good egg; quite splendid, in fact . . . in his own way, of course. We've become friends; see each other almost every day. After all, I live in that neck of the woods now. You didn't know? I've only just moved there. We visited Laviza together on a couple of occasions. Remember her, Laviza Ivanovna?'

‘Did I say anything when I was raving?'

‘Not half! You were quite beside yourself, sir.'

‘What was I raving about?'

‘Come again? What were you raving about? We all know what people rave about . . . But no time to waste, brother – there's things to do.'

He got up from the chair and grabbed his cap.

‘What was I raving about?'

‘Still harping on! Scared of spilling the beans, are you? Don't worry: not a word was uttered about the countess.
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But as for a certain bulldog, and earrings, and chains of some kind, and Krestovsky Island, and a certain caretaker, and Nikodim Fomich, and Ilya Petrovich, assistant to the district superintendent – plenty was said about those. Not to mention, my dear sir, the quite exceptional interest you showed in your own sock! “Give it to me!” you kept whining. “Give it
to me!” Zametov himself searched high and low for your socks and passed you that trash in his very own, bejewelled, perfume-washed hands. Only then did you calm down, clutching it all day and all night; we couldn't get it off you. You must still have it all under your blanket somewhere. Then you started asking for some trouser ends – you were even in tears about it! What trouser ends, we asked, but we couldn't make head or tail of your answer . . . Well, no time to waste! Here's thirty-five roubles. I'm taking ten and I'll be back in a couple of hours to report on how I spent them. In the meantime I'll let Zosimov know, although he should've been here ages ago anyway – it's gone eleven. As for you, Nastyenka, look in more often while I'm gone, should the gentleman desire a drink or anything else . . . As for Pashenka, I'll speak to her myself right now. Goodbye!'

‘Pashenka, he calls her! The sly mug!' said Nastasya as he walked out; then she opened the door to catch what they were saying, but she couldn't bear the suspense and ran downstairs. She was simply dying to know what he was saying to the landlady; and besides, it was obvious that Razumikhin had completely bewitched her.

Barely had she closed the door behind her when the patient threw off his blanket and, like a madman, leapt out of his bed. He'd been waiting for them to leave with a burning, convulsive impatience, so that he could get the thing done immediately. But what thing? He seemed to have forgotten, now of all times, as if on purpose. ‘Lord! Just tell me this: do they already know everything or don't they? What if they do and they're just pretending, just teasing me while I'm lying here, before suddenly walking in and saying they've known about it all along and they were just . . . ? What is it I have to do? There, I've forgotten, as if on purpose; suddenly forgotten, remembered and forgotten!'

He was standing in the middle of the room and looking around in an agony of bewilderment; he went over to the door, opened it, strained his ears; but that wasn't it. Suddenly, as if remembering, he rushed over to the corner where there was a hole in the wallpaper, inspected everything, thrust a hand into the hole and rummaged about, but that wasn't it either. He went over to the stove, opened it and started rummaging in the ash: yes, the scraps of trouser ends and the shredded pocket were lying there just as he'd left them – so no one had looked! Then he remembered the sock Razumikhin had just been talking about. There it was on the couch, under the blanket, but it had
got so dusty and filthy since then that Zametov, needless to say, couldn't have spotted a thing.

‘Ha, Zametov! . . . The police bureau! . . . But why am I being called in to the bureau? Where's my summons? Ha! . . . I'm mixing everything up: that was then! Then I also inspected my sock, but now . . . now I've been ill. And why did Zametov drop in? Why did Razumikhin bring him here?' he muttered feebly, sitting back down on the couch. ‘What's happening to me? Am I still raving or is this all for real? Real enough, it seems . . . Ah, I've remembered: run! Just run, quick, run! Yes . . . but where? And where are my clothes? My boots have gone! Taken away! Hidden! I get it! Ah, here's my coat – they missed that! And the money's on the table, thank God! And here's the promissory note . . . I'll take the money and go, rent another room, they won't track me down! . . . But what about the address bureau? They'll find me! Razumikhin will find me. I should run away completely . . . far away . . . to America and to hell with them! And take the promissory note . . . I'll find a use for it there. Anything else to take? They think I'm sick! They don't even know I can walk, heh-heh-heh! . . . I could tell by their eyes they know everything! Get down the stairs, that's the main thing! But what if they've put men on guard, police? What's this, tea? Look, there's some beer left too, half a bottle, cold!'

He grabbed the bottle in which there was still enough to fill a glass and drank it in one pleasurable gulp, as though quenching a fire in his chest. But less than a minute later the beer had gone to his head and a light, even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and drew the blanket over himself. His thoughts, sick and random enough already, became more and more muddled, and a light, pleasant sleepiness soon enveloped him. Voluptuously seeking out a place on the pillow with his head, he wrapped himself up tight in the soft quilt, which had now taken the place of his old shredded greatcoat, gave a soft sigh and sank into deep, sound, restorative sleep.

He woke on hearing someone come in, opened his eyes and saw Razumikhin, who had flung the door wide open and was standing on the threshold, wondering whether or not to go in. Raskolnikov quickly sat up on the couch and looked at him, as though striving to remember something.

‘So you're awake – well, here I am! Nastasya, bring in the bundle!' Razumikhin shouted down the stairs. ‘Prepare to receive my full report . . .'

‘What time is it?' asked Raskolnikov, anxiously looking around.

‘You slept like a king: it's evening, must be about six. So you've been asleep a good six hours . . .'

‘God! How could I?'

‘Nonsense, it'll do you good! What's the hurry? No one's expecting you, are they? Our time's our own now. Three hours I've been waiting; dropped in a couple of times, but you were sleeping. I called on Zosimov twice: not in – that's all they tell me! Don't worry, he'll come! . . . Must be out and about on his own little errands. I moved today, you know, moved for good, with my uncle. I've an uncle now, you see . . . Well, no time to waste, damn it! . . . Pass me that bundle, Nastyenka. And now we'll . . . But tell me, brother, how are you feeling?'

‘I'm fine. I'm not sick . . . Razumikhin, how long have you been here?'

‘I told you – I've been waiting three hours.'

‘I mean before?'

‘Before what?'

‘When did you start coming here?'

‘But I explained all that earlier, or don't you remember?'

Raskolnikov became pensive. The recent past felt like a dream to him. He couldn't recall it on his own and fixed Razumikhin with a questioning look.

‘H'm!' said the latter. ‘He's forgotten! I thought before that perhaps you still weren't quite in your . . . But the sleep's done you good . . . Really, you look a new man. Good on you! Well, no time to waste! It'll all come back to you now. Have a look at this, dear chap.'

He started untying the bundle, whose contents clearly fascinated him.

‘I can hardly tell you, brother, how much I've been wanting to do this. It's about time you looked the part. Right, we'll start at the top. See this little casquette?' he began, taking from the bundle a fairly decent, if perfectly ordinary, cheap cap. ‘Shall we see if it fits?'

‘Later, later,' said Raskolnikov, peevishly waving it away.

‘No chance, Rodya, don't resist: later will be too late; and anyway I'll be awake all night worrying – I bought it without measuring, by guess and by God. Perfect!' he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Fits perfectly! Headgear, brother, is the alpha and omega of a man's attire, his calling card, if you like. Tolstyakov, a mate of mine, has to remove his lid every time he enters a public place, while everyone else is standing around in hats and caps. Everybody thinks it's the slave in him, but
he's just ashamed of the basket on his head: he's far too bashful, that man! So, Nastyenka, I present to you two types of headgear: this old Palmerston'
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(he reached into the corner for Raskolnikov's mangled round hat, which for some reason he called a Palmerston) ‘or this intricate piece of work? How much do you think I paid, Rodya? Nastasyushka?' he turned to her, getting no response from Raskolnikov.

‘Maybe twenty copecks,' Nastasya replied.

‘You silly girl!' he shouted, taking offence. ‘Even you would fetch more than twenty copecks nowadays! Eighty copecks! And even then only because it's worn. It comes with a guarantee, mind you: wear this one out and you'll get another for free next year, by heaven! And now, sir, for the United American States, as we used to call them at school. Be warned – I'm proud of them!' – and he laid out before Raskolnikov a pair of grey summer trousers made of a light woollen material. ‘No holes, no stains, perfectly acceptable, albeit a bit worn. Likewise the waistcoat, all one colour, as fashion dictates. And there's nothing wrong with second-hand: it's softer, smoother . . . You see, Rodya, in order to make your way in the world it's enough, in my opinion, to observe the season at all times: don't buy asparagus in January and you'll save yourself a few roubles. Well, the same principle applies here. Now it's summer, so I've made a summer purchase; autumn calls for something warmer, I believe, so you'll have to throw them out anyway . . . especially as all this will have fallen to pieces by then, if not from a natural increase in splendour, then from internal contradictions. Well, have a guess! How much? Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And with the same guarantee: wear these out and get others for free next year. At Fedyayev's the terms are always the same: pay once and you'll never pay again, 'cause you'll never want to go back. And now, sir, the boots – well? You can see they're worn, but they'll do for a month or two, seeing as it's foreign handiwork and foreign goods: a secretary at the British embassy flogged them at the flea market last week; he'd only worn them six days, but he needed the cash. Price: one rouble fifty copecks. A good deal?'