Crime and Punishment (30 page)

Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned slightly in Pyotr Petrovich's direction as the latter had made his reply, suddenly began to study him fixedly again, and with a peculiar inquisitiveness, as though he had not so far managed to get a proper look at him, or had been struck by some new aspect of him; he even raised himself from his pillow especially in order to do this. There was, indeed, something singularly striking about Pyotr Petrovich's general appearance, something which, as it were, justified the designation of ‘fiancé’ that had been so unceremoniously conferred upon him only a few moments earlier. For one thing, it was obvious, too much so, even, that Pyotr Petrovich had lost no time in making energetic use of his few days in the capital in order to smarten himself up and acquire some embellishments pending the arrival of his bride – an activity that was, after all, perfectly blameless and within the bounds of decent behaviour. Even his own possibly too self-complacent awareness of his own gratifying change for the better might be forgiven in such an instance, for Pyotr Petrovich had entered upon the career of fiancé. All his clothes were newly procured from the tailor's, and they were all of them excellent, leaving aside the fact that they were too new and were too divulgent of a certain purpose. Even his stylish, brand-new round hat bore witness to that purpose: Pyotr Petrovich treated it too reverentially and held it with too much caution in his grasp. His charming pair of lilac gloves, of real Jouvain manufacture,
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bore similar testimony, if only because he did not wear them, but merely carried them around for show. Pyotr Petrovich's other garments were, on the other hand, of predominantly light and youthful colours. He wore a handsome summer jacket of a light brown hue, light-coloured, lightweight trousers, a waistcoat of the same material, fine linen that had just been purchased, the very lightest of pink-striped cambric cravats – and what crowned it all was that the whole ensemble actually suited Pyotr Petrovich to a T. Even as it was, his face, which was very fresh-complexioned and even handsome, looked younger than its
forty-five years. On either side it was pleasantly overshadowed by a pair of dark side-whiskers, shaped in the form of two mutton-chops, and becoming rather elegantly bushy in the region of his smooth-shaven chin, which shone to the point of glossiness. Even his hair, which contained only the merest traces of grey, combed and curled at the barber's, did not thereby impart to him a comical or stupid aspect, as is generally the case with hair that has been curled, since it gives one's face the inevitable look of a German going to the altar. No, if in this rather personable and commanding physiognomy there was anything unpleasant or alienating to be found, it proceeded from other causes. Having examined Mr Luzhin without ceremony, Raskolnikov smiled a poisonous smile, sank back on his pillow and began to look at the ceiling again. Mr Luzhin, however, restrained himself, having apparently decided to ignore all these eccentricities for the present.

‘I am most, most sorry to find you in such a plight,’ he began again, breaking the silence with an effort. ‘Had I known that you were unwell, I would have called earlier. But business, you understand… I have, what is more, a very important matter at the Senate, in my capacity as lawyer. Not to mention certain other concerns, at which you may be able to guess. I expect the arrival of your family – of your mother and sister, that is – at any moment…’

Raskolnikov began to stir and appeared to be on the point of saying something; his face expressed a certain agitation. Pyotr Petrovich paused in expectancy, but as nothing was forthcoming, he continued:

‘… any moment. I have found them lodgings for their earliest convenience…’

‘Where?’ Raskolnikov said weakly.

‘Rather far from here – Bakaleyev's Tenements…’

‘That's on Voznesensky,’ Razumikhin said, chipping in. ‘There are two floors of rented rooms; it's run by a merchant named Yushin.
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I've been there.’

‘Yes, quite so – rented rooms…’

‘It's the most abominable place: dirty, smelly and of doubtful character, too; there have been incidents; the devil only knows
who lives there!… I looked in there once myself after some scandal or other. It's cheap, though…’

‘Well, of course, I did not have so much information at my disposal, as I am myself new in town,’ Pyotr Petrovich retorted delicately. ‘But I must say they are two most, most clean little rooms, and since it is only for a most brief space of time… I have already found a proper apartment, that is to say, our future one,’ he said, turning to Raskolnikov, ‘and it is now being decorated; and meanwhile I myself have squeezed into rented quarters in the apartment of Mrs Lippewechsel – the abode of a certain young friend of mine, Andrei Semyonych Lebezyatnikov; it was he who directed me to Bakaleyev's Tenements…’

‘Lebezyatnikov?’ Raskolnikov said slowly, as though he were remembering something.

‘Yes, Andrei Semyonych Lebezyatnikov, an official at the Ministry. Is he known to you?’

‘Yes… no…’ Raskolnikov answered.

‘Forgive me, your question led me to believe that he was. I was at one time his tutor… a very likeable young man… well-informed, too… I like meeting young people: it is from them that one learns what is new.’ Pyotr Petrovich examined everyone who was present with a look of hope.

‘In what sense do you mean?’ Razumikhin asked.

‘In a most serious one – in, as it were, the very essence of the matter,’ Pyotr Petrovich said, following on, as though well pleased by the question. ‘You see, it is ten years since last I visited St Petersburg. All these innovations, reforms and ideas of ours – all these things have touched us in the provinces, too; but in order to obtain a clearer view and one that is more comprehensive, it is necessary to be in St Petersburg. Well, sir, and the opinion I have formed is that one notices and learns most by observing our younger generation. And I will confess: I have been encouraged…’

‘By what, exactly?’

‘Your question would take some considerable time to answer. I may be in error, but I have the impression of discerning a clearer view – more, as it were, criticism; more efficiency…’

‘That's true,’ Zosimov said through his teeth.

‘Nonsense, there's no efficiency,’ Razumikhin said, seizing the bait. ‘Efficiency's acquired with some effort, it doesn't just fall from the skies. And we've spent practically the last two hundred years getting out of the habit of all effective action… Oh, it's true that there's a ferment of ideas,’ he said, turning to Pyotr Petrovich, ‘and a desire for good, though it's a childish one; there's even some honesty to be found, in spite of the fact that crooks have been arriving here in their droves; but efficiency, that there isn't! Efficiency requires a pair of boots.’

‘I do not agree with you,’ Pyotr Petrovich replied, with visible pleasure. ‘There are, of course, enthusiasms and eccentricities, but one must be lenient: those enthusiasms bespeak zeal for action and the unfavourable outer environment in which that action must take place. If little has been done, then one must remember that there has not been much time, either. To say nothing of means and remedies. If you desire my own personal opinion, quite a great deal has already been achieved: new, wholesome ideas have been disseminated, several new, wholesome literary works have received circulation in place of the old, dreamy, romantic ones; literature is assuming a more mature inflection; many harmful prejudices have been uprooted and put to scorn… In a word, we have irrevocably cut our ties with the past, and that, in my opinion, sir, amounts to effective action…’

‘He learned all that by rote! He's showing off!’ Raskolnikov articulated suddenly.

‘What did you say, sir?’ Pyotr Petrovich, who had not heard him properly, inquired, but received no answer.

‘It's all true enough,’ Zosimov hastened to interject.

‘Do you not think so?’ Pyotr Petrovich went on, beaming agreeably at Zosimov. ‘You must agree,’ he continued, addressing Razumikhin again, but this time with a certain note of triumph and superiority, and nearly adding: ‘young man’, ‘that there is at least prosperity, or, as is said nowadays, progress, in the fields of science and economic justice…’

‘That's a cliché!’

‘No, sir, it is not! Until now, if I were told, for example: “love”, and I obeyed, what came of it?’ Pyotr Petrovich went
on, with just a little too much haste. ‘What came of it was that I rent my caftan in twain, shared it with my neighbour, and we both ended up half-naked – as the Russian proverb puts it: “Go in pursuit of several hares at once, and you will not secure a single one.”
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Science, however, tells us: “Love yourself before all others, for everything in the world is founded upon self-interest.”
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If you love only yourself, you will conduct your enterprises in a proper manner and your caftan will remain whole. Economic justice adds, moreover, that the more privately organized enterprise there is in society, and the more, as it were, whole caftans there are, the more firmly it is founded and the better the public cause is organized, too. From this it follows that in acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I am by virtue of that very same fact acquiring it for all and am contributing to a situation whereby my neighbour may receive slightly more than a rent caftan, and this not because of any private, individual acts of generosity, but as a consequence of the resulting universal prosperity. A simple thought, but one that has unfortunately taken a long time to arrive, overshadowed as it has been by enthusiasm and proneness to dreaming; yet no great wit would seem to be required in order to surmise it…’

‘Well, you'll have to forgive me, I'm afraid I'm another of those witless folk,’ Razumikhin said, sharply, ‘so perhaps we should forget it. I opened my mouth with a purpose, but all these self-indulgent bits of chatter, all these constant, incessant clichés, the same thing over and over again, have become so obnoxious to me during the past three years, that I swear to God I blush when other people, let alone myself, utter them in my presence. You were, of course, in a hurry to show off your knowledge, and that is very excusable, I don't condemn it. All I was trying to do just now was find out what sort of man you are, because, you see, so many professional manipulators have battened on to the public cause and have bent all that they touched to their own interest to such a degree that they've brought the whole cause into disrepute. Well, that's enough of that!’

‘Sir,’ Mr Luzhin began, wincing with extreme dignity, ‘surely you do not mean to imply in this unceremonious manner that I, too…’

‘Oh, come, come, sir! What do you think I am? That's enough!’ Razumikhin snapped, turning suddenly in Zosimov's direction in order to resume their earlier conversation.

Pyotr Petrovich had enough sense to accept this response in good faith. He had, in any case, decided to leave in a minute or two.

‘I hope that the acquaintance we have now begun,’ he said, turning to Raskolnikov, ‘may, after you have recovered and in view of certain circumstances with which you are familiar, consolidate itself even further… I particularly wish you good health…’

Raskolnikov did not so much as turn his head. Pyotr Petrovich began to get up from his chair.

‘It was quite certainly one of her clients who murdered her,’ Zosimov said, affirmatively.

‘That's right!’ Razumikhin replied, in an approving tone of voice. ‘Porfiry's not giving anything away, but he's questioning the clients all the same…’

‘He's questioning the clients?’ Raskolnikov asked, loudly.

‘Yes – what of it?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘How is he tracking them down?’ Zosimov inquired.

‘Some of them were pointed out to him by Koch; others had their names written on the paper in which their goods were wrapped, and there were yet others who came in of their own free will when they heard…’

‘Well, he must have been a skilled and experienced blackguard, then! What audacity! What resolve!’

‘That's exactly what it wasn't!’ said Razumikhin, interrupting. ‘That's what's been throwing you all off the scent. No, in my opinion he's neither skilled nor experienced, and he's probably a first-timer. If you assume that calculation was involved, and that he's a clever bastard, it all looks rather improbable. If, on the other hand, you assume he was inexperienced, it looks as though it was only chance that saved him from disaster, and what doesn't chance get up to? For heaven's sake, he may not even have had any idea of the problems he might encounter! And how does he go about doing it? He takes some
items worth ten to twenty roubles each, stuffs his pocket with them, digs around in the old woman's chestful of rags – yet all the while, in a cash-box in the top drawer of the chest of drawers there's a good clear fifteen hundred roubles in gold, never mind all the banknotes! He didn't even know how to conduct a robbery, all he knew was the business of killing! It was his first time, I tell you, his first time; he lost his nerve! And it wasn't calculation but chance that got him out of it!’

‘I believe you are referring to the recent murder of the civil servant's widow?’ Pyotr Petrovich said, breaking into the conversation and addressing Zosimov; he now had his hat and gloves in his hand, preliminary to his departure, but wished to throw in a few more intelligent remarks before leaving. He was evidently concerned to make a favourable impression, and vanity had got the better of good sense.

‘Yes. You've heard about it?’

‘I could hardly have failed to, sir… It happened in the vicinity…’

‘Are you familiar with the details?’

‘That I cannot pretend; but what interests me about the case is another aspect of it – one that relates to the whole question, as it were. It is not simply that during the past five years crime has been on the increase among the lower classes of society; it is not simply the high and unbroken incidence of fires and burglaries; what I find strangest of all is that crime is similarly on the increase even among the upper classes, running, as it were, in a parallel direction. Here there is news of an ex-student robbing the mail on the open road; here men who, by their social position, occupy a leading place in society are found guilty of forging banknotes; in Moscow they have caught an entire gang who forged the tickets of the last lottery loan – and among the principal culprits was a university lecturer in world history; abroad, the secretary of one of our embassies was murdered for some obscure, financial reason
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… And now, if this old woman pawnbroker was murdered by one of her clients, it was doubtless a man of the more elevated classes, for muzhiks do not pawn gold articles, and how is one to explain this immoral behaviour on the part of the civilized portion of our society?’