Crime and Punishment (57 page)

And how did this ‘certificate of distinction' suddenly materialize on the bed, next to Katerina Ivanovna? It lay right there, by the pillow; Raskolnikov could see it.

He withdrew to the window. Lebezyatnikov hurried over to him.

‘Dead!' said Lebezyatnikov.

‘Rodion Romanovich, I have two urgent things to tell you,' said Svidrigailov, walking over. Lebezyatnikov immediately made way and faded tactfully into the background. Svidrigailov led the astonished Raskolnikov even further off into the corner.

‘I'll take care of all this – the funeral and so on. I told you I had some money going spare – so why not use it? I'll find decent orphanages for those two mites and for Polechka, and put one thousand five hundred aside for each of them, until they come of age, so Sofya Semyonovna won't have the slightest cause for anxiety. And I'll save her from ruin as well, because she's a good girl, is she not? Well then, sir, be so kind as to tell Avdotya Romanovna that this is the use to which her ten thousand have been put.'

‘And the purpose of all this charity?' asked Raskolnikov.

‘Dear dear! Aren't we mistrustful!' laughed Svidrigailov. ‘I told you this money was going spare. What if it's simply for reasons of
humanity – can't you accept that? I mean, she was no “louse”' (he jabbed his finger in the general direction of the deceased), ‘she wasn't some hag of a moneylender. I mean, really, “should Luzhin live and commit his abominations or should she die?” And, but for my help, “Polechka, say, will go the same way . . .”'

He said this with a sort of
winking
, merrily roguish air, never once taking his eyes off Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov turned white and a chill came over him as he heard his own words once spoken to Sonya. He immediately shrank back and stared wildly at Svidrigailov.

‘H-how . . . do you know?' he whispered, scarcely able to breathe.

‘Because I live right here, on the other side of the wall, at Madame Resslich's. She's a very old and devoted friend. Neighbours, sir.'

‘You?'

‘Yes, me,' Svidrigailov went on, swaying with mirth, ‘and let me assure you, on my honour, dearest Rodion Romanovich, that I find you quite fascinating, astonishingly so. Didn't I tell you we'd become close? Didn't I predict it? Well, now we have. And you'll see what an accommodating fellow I am. You'll see that I'm not so very hard to get along with . . .'

For Raskolnikov a strange time had begun: it was as if a fog had suddenly descended, trapping him in hopeless, oppressive isolation. Recalling this time much later, he surmised that he'd experienced, now and then, a dimming of his consciousness and that this had continued, with a few intervals, right up until the final catastrophe. He was absolutely convinced that he'd been mistaken about many things, such as the duration and timing of certain events. At any rate, when he subsequently recalled what had happened and tried to make sense of it all, he learned a great deal about himself, guided as he now was by external information. He had, for example, mixed up one event with another, and considered a third to be the consequence of something that had happened solely in his imagination. At times, he'd been possessed by morbid, excruciating anxiety, which could even mutate into sheer panic. But he also remembered that minutes, hours and even, perhaps, days had been filled with an apathy that possessed him as if in direct contrast to his previous fear – an apathy that resembled the morbid, indifferent state occasionally experienced by the dying. On the whole, it was as if, during these final days, he himself had been trying to run away from a clear and full understanding of his situation; certain crucial facts that needed to be explained there and then weighed especially heavily upon him; but how glad he would have been to cast off some of his worries and flee – even if to forget them, in such a situation as his, threatened him with total and inevitable ruin.

Svidrigailov made him especially uneasy: he even seemed to get stuck, as it were, on Svidrigailov. It was as if, ever since he heard Svidrigailov say those words, so full of menace for him and so clearly expressed, at Sonya's apartment at the moment of Katerina Ivanovna's death, the usual flow of his thoughts was disrupted. But though this new fact made him exceptionally anxious, he seemed in no hurry to get to the bottom of it. Now and then, suddenly finding himself in a remote and isolated part of the city, alone at a table in some wretched tavern, brooding and barely conscious of how he'd ended up there, he
would suddenly think of Svidrigailov: he would suddenly realize all too clearly and uneasily that he had to come to an arrangement with this man at the earliest opportunity and, if possible, settle things for good. Once, wandering off somewhere beyond the city limits, he even imagined that he was expecting Svidrigailov and that they'd fixed a meeting there. Another time, he woke before daybreak on the ground somewhere, in the bushes, unsure of how he'd got there. Although, in fact, in the course of these two or three days since Katerina Ivanovna's death he'd already met Svidrigailov a few times, almost always at Sonya's, where he would wander in as if for no reason and almost always for only a minute. They'd exchange brief remarks, never once touching on the essential point, as if they'd agreed not to mention it for the time being. Katerina Ivanovna's body still lay in the coffin. Svidrigailov was busy seeing to the funeral arrangements. Sonya also had her hands full. At their last meeting, Svidrigailov explained to Raskolnikov that he'd dealt with Katerina Ivanovna's children, and dealt with them successfully; that he'd managed, through certain connections, to find the right people to help him place the three orphans, without delay, in entirely suitable institutions; that the money set aside for them had also been a great help, since it was far easier to place orphans with money than orphans with nothing. He said something about Sonya, too, promised to call on Raskolnikov himself in the next day or two, and mentioned that he wished to ask his advice; that they really needed to have a chat; that they had ‘some business to discuss' . . . This conversation took place by the main door, on the stairs. Svidrigailov stared straight into Raskolnikov's eyes and suddenly, pausing and lowering his voice, asked him:

‘What's come over you, Rodion Romanych? You're not yourself at all! You look and listen, but it's as if you're not even following. You should cheer up a bit. And we must have a chat: just a shame I've so much on – other people's affairs as well as my own . . . Ah, Rodion Romanych,' he suddenly added, ‘every human being needs air – Yes, air, air . . . More than anything!'

He suddenly stepped aside to make way for a priest and a deacon coming up the stairs. They were about to perform the memorial service. Svidrigailov had arranged for this to be done twice a day, on the dot. Svidrigailov went on his way. Raskolnikov stood there, thought for a moment, then followed the priest into Sonya's room.

He stood in the doorway. The service was beginning with quiet,
sad decorum. Awareness of death and its presence had always contained for him something oppressive, some mystical dread, ever since childhood; besides, it was a long time since he'd last heard a service for the dead. But there was something else as well, something far too dreadful and disturbing. He was looking at the children: they were all by the coffin, on their knees; Polechka was crying. Behind them, weeping softly and almost shyly, Sonya was praying. The thought, ‘She hasn't glanced at me once these past few days, nor spoken a word to me,' suddenly struck him. The room was brightly lit by the sun; puffs of smoke floated up from the censer. ‘God rest her soul,' read the priest. Raskolnikov stood for the duration of the service. Giving his blessing and taking his leave, the priest looked about him in a strange kind of way. After the service Raskolnikov walked up to Sonya. Suddenly, she took both his hands in hers and inclined her head towards his shoulder. This brief gesture left Raskolnikov bewildered. In fact, it felt strange. What? Not the slightest disgust? Not the slightest revulsion towards him? Not the slightest tremble in her hand? What was this if not some infinity of self-abasement? That, at any rate, was how he understood it. Sonya said nothing. Raskolnikov squeezed her hand and left. He felt dreadful. Had he only been able to go off somewhere there and then and be entirely alone, even if it were for the rest of his life, he'd have thought himself lucky. But lately, even though he was almost always alone, he never felt alone. He might walk out of the city and out onto the high road or even, on one occasion, to some little wood; but the more isolated the place, the more strongly he seemed to be aware of someone's close and unsettling presence – it wasn't terrifying exactly, just extremely bothersome, so he would hurry back to the city, mix with the crowds, visit the taverns and drinking dens, go to the flea market, to Haymarket. It was as if he somehow felt better there, more isolated. In one eating-house, in the late afternoon, there was singing: he sat and listened for a whole hour and remembered having even enjoyed it. But towards the end he suddenly became anxious again, as if a pang of conscience had suddenly begun to torment him: ‘Look at me sitting here, listening to songs – as if there's nothing else I should be doing!' was the kind of thought in his mind. But he soon realized that wasn't the only thing troubling him: there was something that demanded to be resolved at once, but it could neither be grasped nor put into words. As if everything were being wound into a ball. ‘No, a fight would be better than this! Porfiry again . . . or
Svidrigailov . . . I need a challenge, someone to attack me . . . Yes! Yes!' He left the eating-house and almost broke into a run. The thought of Dunya and his mother had, for some reason, suddenly thrown him into a kind of panic. That was the night when he woke before dawn in the bushes on Krestovsky Island, shivering to the bone and feverish. He set off home, arriving in the early morning. After several hours' sleep the fever passed, but it was already late when he woke: two in the afternoon.

This, he recalled, was the day fixed for Katerina Ivanovna's funeral, and he was relieved to have missed it. Nastasya brought him some food. He ate and drank with gusto, almost greedily. His mind felt fresher and he himself calmer than at any point in these last three days. He even felt a passing surprise at his earlier surges of panic. The door opened and Razumikhin walked in.

‘Ha! He's eating, so he can't be that sick!' said Razumikhin, grabbing a chair and sitting down at the table, opposite Raskolnikov. He was very worried about something and made no attempt to hide the fact. He spoke with evident vexation, but without hurrying and even without raising his voice very much. One might have thought that some special, even all-consuming purpose had taken hold of him. ‘Listen,' he began decisively, ‘you can all go to hell as far as I'm concerned, but what I see now tells me clearly that I don't understand a thing; but please, don't think I've come here to interrogate you. As if I care! Go ahead and reveal everything, all your secrets, and I might very well not even listen – I'll spit and walk away. I only came to find out in person, once and for all: is it true, first of all, that you're mad? You see, there's this notion about you (among some people, somewhere) that you might be mad or very much that way inclined. I'll admit that I myself was strongly tempted to support this opinion, firstly, on account of your stupid and not infrequently beastly actions (which are beyond explanation), and secondly, on account of your recent behaviour towards your mother and sister. Only a monster and a scoundrel, if not a madman, could have behaved towards them as you did; therefore, you are mad . . .'

‘When did you last see them?'

‘Just now. So you've not seen them since then? Where do you keep gadding off to, eh? This is the fourth time I've come by. Your mother's been seriously ill since yesterday. She wanted to visit you. Avdotya Romanovna tried to stop her, but she wasn't having any of it: “If he's
sick, if he's disturbed, who'll help him if not his mother?” We all came over together – we could hardly let her go on her own. Begged her to calm down all the way to your door. Came in, but you were out. She sat right here. Sat here for ten minutes, with us silently hovering over her. She got up and said: “If he's out and about, which means he must be well and has forgotten all about his mother, then it's unseemly and shameful for me to loiter on the threshold, begging for a kiss as if it were charity.” She went back home and took to her bed. Now she's running a fever. “He can find time for
his
girl
, I see.” By that she means Sofya Semyonovna, your fiancée or lover – don't ask me. I set off straight away to see Sofya Semyonovna, because, brother, I wanted to get to the bottom of it all. I walk in and what do I find? A coffin, children crying. Sofya Semyonovna measuring their mourning dresses. No sign of you. I looked, apologized and left, and reported back to Avdotya Romanovna. So it was all rubbish and there was no
girl
; madness, more likely. But here you are wolfing down beef as if you haven't eaten for three days. Fair enough, the mad have to eat too; but even though you've not said a word to me, you're . . . not mad! I'll swear on it. If there's one thing you're not, it's mad! In short, you can all go to hell, because there's some mystery here, some secret; and I don't intend to rack my brains wondering what you're all hiding. I only came over here to shout and swear,' he concluded, getting up, ‘and to get it all off my chest, but I know what I'm going to do next!'

‘And what do you want to do next?'

‘Why should you care what I want to do next?'

‘Mind you stay away from the bottle!'

‘How on earth did you guess?'

‘Do me a favour!'

Razumikhin fell silent for a minute.

‘You've always been a rational sort and you've never, ever been mad,' he suddenly remarked with feeling. ‘Yes, I'll hit the bottle! See you!' – and he made as if to leave.

‘You know, Razumikhin, I was speaking about you with my sister – must have been the day before yesterday.'

‘About me? But . . . where on earth could you have seen her the day before yesterday?' asked Razumikhin, suddenly stopping and even turning a little pale. One look at him was enough to feel the slow, tense thumping of his heart.

‘She came here, all alone, sat here and talked to me.'

‘She came here?'

‘Yes.'

‘So what did you say . . . about me, I mean?'

‘I told her that you're a very good, honest and hard-working man. I didn't tell her you love her – she already knows.'

‘She already knows?'

‘Of course she knows! Wherever I go and whatever happens to me, you'll still be their Providence. I am, you might say, handing them over to you, Razumikhin. I say this because I know full well how much you love her and I know your heart is pure. I also know that she can love you and perhaps already does. Now it's for you to decide, whether or not to go boozing.'

‘Rodka . . . You see . . . Well . . . Ah, damn it all! And where are you off to anyway? You see, if this is all a secret, fine! But I'll . . . I'll discover this secret . . . And I bet it's something completely idiotic, something dreadfully trivial, and that it's all your own doing. Never mind – you're a smashing lad! A smashing lad!'

‘I was just about to add, before you interrupted, that it was very sensible of you to decide earlier on to leave these mysteries and secrets alone. Forget all about them. You'll find everything out in your own time, just when you need to. Yesterday someone was telling me that air is what man needs – air, air! I'm just about to go and see him and find out what he means.'

Razumikhin stood there, pensive and uneasy, trying to work something out.

‘He's a political conspirator!
1
No doubt about it! And he's on the verge of some drastic step – no doubt about it! And . . . and Dunya knows . . . ,' he suddenly thought to himself.

‘So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you,' he said, enunciating every syllable, ‘but the person you want to see is a man who tells you that what you need is air, more air and . . . and so this letter . . . must also have something to do with that,' he concluded, as if talking to himself.