Crime and Punishment (25 page)

Raskolnikov fell on to the sofa in helpless exhaustion, but was now unable to close his eyes; for half an hour he lay in such suffering, such an unendurable sense of limitless horror, as he had never in his life experienced. Suddenly his room was lit by a bright light: Nastasya had come in with a candle and a plate of soup. Giving him an attentive look and perceiving that he was not asleep, she put the candle down on the table and began to lay out the things she had brought: bread, salt, the plate, a spoon.

‘I do believe he hasn't eaten a thing since yesterday. Been gadding about all day, he has, and all the time he's got the fever on him.’

‘Nastasya… why was the landlady being beaten?’

‘Who was beating the landlady?’

‘Just now… half an hour ago. Ilya Petrovich, the assistant
superintendent, on the stairs… Why did he give her such a terrible beating? And… why did he come here?’

Without saying a word, Nastasya studied him, frowning, and continued to look at him for a long time like that. This intent scrutiny began to make him feel very uncomfortable, and even afraid.

‘Nastasya, why don't you say anything?’ he said at last, timidly, in a faint voice.

‘That's blood,’ she replied, at last, quietly and as though she were talking to herself.

‘Blood? What blood?…’ he muttered, turning pale and backing away against the wall. Nastasya continued to stare at him in silence.

‘No one's been beating the landlady,’ she said, in a firm, stern voice. He looked at her, scarcely breathing.

‘I heard it with my own ears… I wasn't asleep… I was sitting up,’ he said even more timidly. ‘I spent a long time listening… The assistant superintendent came here… Everyone came out on to the stairs, from all the apartments…’

‘No one's been here. That's your own blood, making a noise inside you. It's when it can't get out and begins clotting in your liver, you start seeing things… Are you going to have some of this, or aren't you?’

He did not answer. Nastasya went on standing over him, staring fixedly at him and making no sign of being about to depart.

‘Nastasyushka… I'm so thirsty.’

She went downstairs and a couple of minutes later returned with a white clay jug of water; but he did not remember what happened next. All he could remember was taking one sip of cold water and spilling some of the jugful on his chest. Thereupon, unconsciousness ensued.

Not that he was completely unconscious during the whole period of his illness: it was rather a state of fever, with delirium and semi-wakefulness. He remembered much of it afterwards. Now it seemed to him that a large number of people had gathered round him with the intention of seizing him and carrying him off somewhere, arguing and quarrelling fiercely over him. Now he was suddenly alone in the room, everyone had gone away in fear of him, and only now and then would they open the door ever so slightly in order to look at him; they would threaten him, make arrangements about something between themselves, laugh at him and tease him. He remembered Nastasya being frequently beside him; he could also discern another person whom he thought seemed very familiar, but who this was he could not for the life of him determine – and this made him miserable, so that he even cried. Sometimes he would fancy that he had been lying there for a month; at other times, that it was still the same day. As far as
that
was concerned, however –
that
he had forgotten about altogether; though every minute or so he would remember that he had forgotten about something it was out of the question for him to forget about, and as it came back to him he would be racked with torment and anguish – groaning as he sank into rabid fury or fearful, unbearable terror. Then he would endeavour to get up, to flee, but someone always stopped him by force, and he would fall back helpless, unconscious. At last he came back to himself completely.

This happened in the morning, at ten o'clock. At that hour, on clear days, the sun sent a long band of light over the right-hand wall of his room, illuminating the corner beside the door. By his bed stood Nastasya and another person who was examining him very curiously and was totally unfamiliar to him. This was a young lad in a caftan, with a beard, who was probably a money messenger by the look of him. Through the half-open door peeped the landlady. Raskolnikov raised himself on one elbow.

‘Who's this, Nastasya?’ he asked, pointing to the lad.

‘Would you look at him, why, he's woken up!’ she said.

‘So the gentleman has,’ the money messenger replied. Realizing that this was so, the landlady ceased her observation through the doorway, closed the door and disappeared from view. She was invariably shy, and found conversations and arguments irksome; she was about forty, and was plump and oily, black-eyebrowed and black-haired, with the good nature that goes along with plumpness and laziness; actually, she was quite a comely woman. More bashful than she needed to be.

‘You… who are you?’ he went on, continuing his inquiry, and addressing the money messenger himself. But at that moment the door again opened wide, and, stooping slightly because of his height, Razumikhin came in.

‘It's a regular ship's cabin,’ he exclaimed, as he entered. ‘I always bang my head; and they call these lodgings! So you've woken up, have you, brother? I heard it just now from Pashenka.’

‘He only woke up a second ago,’ said Nastasya.

‘That's right, only a second ago,’ the money messenger echoed with a smile.

‘And who might you be, sir?’ Razumikhin asked, suddenly turning to him. ‘I'd like to make it clear to you that my name's Vrazumikhin; not Razumikhin, as everyone calls me,
¹
but Vrazumikhin – a student and gentleman's son, and he's my chum. Well, sir – and who are you?’

‘I'm the money messenger in our office, I've been sent from the merchant Shelopayev's, sir, and I'm here on business.’

‘Will you be so good as to sit down on this chair, please?’ Razumikhin sat down on another, at the opposite side of the table. ‘It's just as well you've woken up, brother,’ he went on, addressing Raskolnikov. ‘You've hardly had a bite to eat or a drop to drink for four days. Really – we've been giving you tea in spoonfuls. Twice I brought Zosimov to see you. Do you remember Zosimov? He examined you carefully and immediately said it was all a lot of nonsense – you'd had some kind of stroke in your head, or something. Some nervous rubbish, poor diet, he said, not enough beer and horseradish, that was why you'd got ill, but it was nothing, it would pass. Good old
Zosimov! He set about tending to you nobly! Well, sir, I mustn't keep you any longer,’ he said turning to the money messenger again. ‘Please be so good as to tell us what you want. I may as well let you know, Rodya, that this is the second time someone's come from that office of theirs; only last time it wasn't this fellow, but another, and he and I had a bit of a talking-to. Who was that fellow who came here before you?’

‘I think that sounds as though it must have been the day before yesterday, sir. It must have been Aleksey Semyonovich; he works in our office too, sir.’

‘Would you say he was a bit more intelligent than you? What's your opinion?’

‘Yes, sir; he's sort of – a bit more solid, sir.’

‘Spot on. Well, sir: continue.’

‘Well you see, sir, there's a money order come to our office for you through Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, of whom you've heard a few times before, I believe, at the request of your mother, sir,’ the money messenger went on, addressing Raskolnikov directly. ‘In the event of your being in possession of your faculties, sir, I'm to entrust thirty-five roubles to you, sir, as Semyon Semyonovich has received instructions to that effect from Afanasy Ivanovich, in the same manner as on the previous occasion, at your mother's request. Would you be knowing Afanasy Ivanovich, sir?’

‘Yes… I remember… someone called Vakhrushin,’ Raskolnikov said, meditatively.

‘Do you hear that? He knows the merchant Vakhrushin!’
²
Razumikhin exclaimed. ‘How could he possibly not be in possession of his faculties? As a matter of fact, I'm beginning to notice now that you're an intelligent chap, too. I say, sir! It's nice to do business with a man who can talk with some wit.’

‘It's the same Vakhrushin, sir, Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, and at the request of your mother, who has already sent some money through him in the same manner, he's agreed to do it again on this occasion, sir, and a day or two ago sent instructions from his domicile that you were to be paid thirty-five roubles, in expectation of better days to come, sir.’

‘ “Better days to come”? That's your best crack yet; though
the one about “your mother” wasn't bad, either. Well, tell me, in your opinion: is he or isn't he in full possession of his faculties – eh?’

‘It's all right with me, sir. Only he ought to sign for it, sir.’

‘He'll scratch his name, never fear! What's the form? Do you have a book, or something?’

‘Yes, sir, here it is, sir.’

‘Give it here. Now, Rodya, sit up. I'll support you; just scribble Raskolnikov for him; take the pen, brother, for money is sweeter than sugar to us right now.’

‘I don't want it,’ Raskolnikov said, pushing the pen away.

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘I won't sign.’

‘The devil, man, but you've got to!’

‘I don't want… the money…’

‘So it's: “I don't want the money”, is it? Well, brother, you're singing the wrong tune there, I have my ears as a witness! Please don't worry, he's off on his… travels again. It happens to him even when he's wide awake… You're a sensible chap, and we'll provide him with a bit of guidance, that's to say, we'll simply guide his hand, and he'll sign. Well, let's get on with it…’

‘Oh, I think perhaps I'll look in some other time…’

‘No, no; there's no reason for you to put yourself out. You're a sensible chap… Now, Rodya – don't delay our visitor any longer… he's waiting, you see.’ And he earnestly prepared to guide Raskolnikov's hand.

‘Leave me, I'll do it… myself…’ Raskolnikov said, took the pen and signed his name in the book. The money messenger laid out the cash and beat a retreat.

‘Bravo! Now, brother, are you hungry?’

‘Yes,’ Raskolnikov replied.

‘Have you any soup?’

‘There's some of yesterday's left,’ Nastasya, who had been standing there all this time, replied.

‘Rice-flour and potato?’

‘That's right.’

‘I know it off by heart. Bring on your soup, and let us have some tea while you're about it.’

‘All right, then.’

Raskolnikov was looking at everything with deep amazement and a vacant, senseless terror. He decided to say nothing and wait for what might happen next. ‘I don't appear to be delirious,’ he thought. ‘This must all be real…’

Two minutes later Nastasya returned with the soup and announced that the tea would be along in a moment. To accompany the soup, two spoons and two plates put in an appearance, together with a complete dinner-set: a salt-cellar, a pepperpot, mustard for the beef and so on, the like of which had not been seen for a long time. There was even a clean tablecloth.

‘It might not be a bad idea, Nastasyushka, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could do with a drop of something.’

‘Quick on your toes, aren't you?’ Nastasya muttered, and went off to fulfil his command.

Raskolnikov continued to stare at everything wildly and with strained attention. In the meantime Razumikhin moved over and sat beside him on the sofa, and with the clumsiness of a bear placed his left arm around his head, even though Raskolnikov could quite easily have raised himself, and with his right hand brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth, first having blown on it as a precaution, so that he should not burn his tongue. The soup, however, was only barely warm. Raskolnikov greedily gulped down one spoonful, then another, then yet another. But then, having given him a few spoonfuls, Razumikhin suddenly stopped and announced that before letting him have any more he would have to consult Zosimov.

Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.

‘What about that tea, do you want it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Run and get the tea, Nastasya, there's a good girl – I think we may safely indulge in tea without consulting the medical faculty. But now we have beer, too!’ He moved back to his own chair, drew the soup and the beef towards him, and began to eat with such appetite that one might have thought he had had nothing to eat for three days.

‘You know, brother Rodya, I eat like this at your place every day now,’ he muttered as clearly as he was able with his mouth stuffed full of beef. ‘That wonderful landlady of yours, Pashenka, sees to everything – she makes these feasts in my honour and really puts her heart into them. Of course, it's not at my insistence, but then I don't exactly protest either. And now here's Nastasya with the tea. Quick, wasn't she? Nastenka, would you like some beer?’

‘Oh, you and your mischief!’

‘Some tea, then?’

‘Yes, I'd quite like some.’

‘Go on then, pour it out. Wait, I'll do it; sit down at the table.’

He at once took over from her, poured one cup, then another, abandoned his lunch and sat down on the sofa again. As before, he put his left arm around the patient's head, lifted him up and began to spoon tea into him with a teaspoon, again blowing on it constantly with especial zeal, as though this process of sufflation contained within it the element that was central and crucial to Raskolnikov's recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and offered no resistance, in spite of the fact that he felt he had quite enough strength to raise himself and sit on the sofa without anyone's help; not only did he feel he could keep sufficient control of his hands in order to hold a spoon or a cup – he could even, he felt, have walked. But the workings of some strange, almost animal cunning suddenly prompted him to conceal his strength until the right moment, to lie low, pretend to be not yet quite conscious, if need be, while all the while listening and pricking up his ears to find out what was going on. He was, however, unable to master his revulsion: having gulped down about a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly jerked his head free, pushed the teaspoon away fretfully, and collapsed once again on the pillows. There were actually proper pillows under his head now – feather ones with clean slips; this, too, he observed and took into account.