Crime and Punishment (37 page)

‘Listen – what's your name?… and also: where do you live?’ she asked in a hurried little out-of-breath voice.

He put both his hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a kind of happiness. He took such pleasure in looking at her – he himself did not know why.

‘Who sent you?’

‘My sister Sonya,’ the little girl replied, her smile even livelier now.

‘I somehow knew it was your sister Sonya.’

‘Mother sent me, too. When my sister Sonya started sending me, Mother came over, too, and said: “Run as fast as you can, Polya!”’

‘Do you love your sister Sonya?’

‘I love her more than anyone else!’ Polenka said with a peculiar firmness, and her smile suddenly became more serious.

‘And will you love me, too?’

In lieu of a reply, he saw the little girl's face with its pouting lips naïvely extended in order to give him a kiss. Suddenly her matchstick-thin arms seized him in the tightest of embraces, her head inclined towards his shoulder, and the little girl began quietly to weep, pressing her face harder and harder against him.

‘I want my Papa!’ she said a moment later, raising that face, now stained with tears which she wiped away with her hand. ‘We've had such a lot of bad luck recently,’ she added unexpectedly, with that peculiar air of solid strength children adopt with such intensity whenever they suddenly try to talk like ‘grown-ups’.

‘And did your papa love you?’

‘Of us all, he loved Lidochka the best,’ she went on very earnestly, without smiling, this time speaking exactly in the way grown-ups do. ‘He loved her because she's little, and also because she's ill – he was always bringing her sweets. And as for us, he taught us to read, and he taught me grammar and holy Scripture,’ she added with dignity. ‘And Mama never said
anything, but we knew she liked that, and Papa knew it too, and Mama wants to teach me French, because it's time I was getting some education.’

‘And do you know your prayers?’

‘Oh, goodness – of course we do! We've known them for ages; I say my prayers to myself, because I'm big now, but Kolya and Lidochka say theirs out loud with Mama; first they recite the “Mother of God”, and then they say another prayer that goes, “O Lord, forgive and bless our sister Sonya,” and then another one that goes, “O Lord, forgive and bless our other Papa,” because our old Papa's dead now, and this is our other one, you see, but we say a prayer for our old one, too.’

‘Polechka: my name's Rodion; please say a prayer for me, too, sometime: “and thy servant Rodion” – that'll do.’

‘I'll pray for you all the rest of my life,’ the little girl said passionately, and again she suddenly laughed, rushed to him and embraced him tightly.

Raskolnikov told her his name, gave her his address and promised to come and see them again the next day without fail. The little girl went back upstairs completely enraptured by him. It was already getting on for eleven by the time he emerged on to the street. Five minutes later he was standing on the bridge at the very spot where the woman had thrown herself over the day before.

‘That's enough!’ he said, solemnly and decisively. ‘Begone, mirages, begone, affected terrors, begone, apparitions!… There's a life to be lived! I was alive just now, after all, wasn't I? My life didn't die along with the old woman! May she attain the heavenly kingdom – enough, old lady, it's time you retired! Now is the kingdom of reason and light, and… freedom and strength… and now we shall see! Now we shall measure swords!’ he added, self-conceitedly, as though addressing some dark power and challenging it. ‘And there was I consenting to live in one
arshin
of space!

‘… I'm very weak at the moment, but… I think my illness has finally passed. I knew it would when I left my apartment earlier today. Come of think of it: Pochinkov's Tenements – that's just a couple of steps from here. Oh, I must go to Razumikhin's
place, I'd have to go there even if it weren't so close… let him win his wager!… even let him make fun of me if he wants to – it doesn't matter, let him!… Strength, strength is what I need: one can't get anything without strength; and strength has to be acquired by means of strength – that's what they don't understand,’ he added with pride and self-assurance, and continued his way across to the other side of the bridge, hardly able to shift his legs. His pride and self-assurance were increasing with each moment that passed; from one moment to the next he was not the same person. But what had happened that was so special, that had caused this transformation in him? He himself did not know; like a man clutching at a straw, he had suddenly conceived the notion that for him, too, ‘life was possible’, that there was ‘still a life to be lived’, that his life ‘hadn't died along with the old woman’. This was, perhaps, a somewhat hasty inference to draw, but he spent no time thinking about it.

‘I asked her to say a prayer for “thy servant Rodion”, didn't I?’ – the thought flashed suddenly through his head. ‘Oh well, that was… just in case!’ he added, and immediately laughed at his childish behaviour. He was in a most marvellous frame of mind.

He did not have much difficulty in finding Razumikhin; the new tenant was already familiar at the Pochinkov building, and the yardkeeper was able to show him the way at once. Even halfway up the staircase one could hear the noise and animated conversation of a large gathering. The door of the apartment was wide open; shouting and arguments could be heard. Razumikhin's room was quite a large one, and some fifteen people were gathered in it. Raskolnikov stopped in the entrance hall. There, behind a partition, two of the landlord's serving maids were fussing over two large samovars, and over bottles and plates and dishes holding pies and
zakuski
, all of which had been brought up from the landlord's kitchen. Raskolnikov sent one of them in to tell Razumikhin he was there. Razumikhin came running in delight. At first glance one could tell he had had rather a lot to drink, and although Razumikhin almost never got drunk, on this occasion his condition was somewhat noticeable.

‘Listen,’ Raskolnikov said hurriedly. ‘I just came to tell you that you've won your wager and that it really is true that no one can tell what may happen to him. I can't come in and join you: I'm so weak that I'd just fall down. So, greetings and farewell! But come and see me tomorrow…’

‘Do you know what? I'm going to take you home! I mean, if you yourself are complaining of being weak, then…’

‘But what about your guests? I say, who's that curly-haired chap who was looking this way just now?’

‘Him? God only knows! He must be some friend of my uncle's, or perhaps he just walked in… I'll leave Uncle with them; he's a most valuable fellow; it's a pity I can't introduce you to him now. But to hell with them all! They're not interested in me just now, and I need some fresh air – so you've come at the right time, brother; to be quite honest, another two minutes in there and I'd have started a fight with someone! They're talking such a load of rubbish… You can't imagine the crazy things people will say! Though actually, perhaps you can. Don't we say a lot of silly things ourselves? Well, let them talk nonsense: perhaps then they'll talk sense later… Look, sit here for a minute while I go and get Zosimov.’

Zosimov pounced on Raskolnikov with something approaching greed; one could observe in him a peculiar kind of inquisitiveness; soon his face brightened up.

‘You must go to bed at once and sleep,’ he pronounced, having examined the patient as well as he could under the circumstances, ‘and take a certain little something for the night. Will you take one? I prepared it earlier on… it's a type of powder.’

‘I'll take two if you like,’ Raskolnikov answered.

The powder was taken there and then.

‘It's a very good idea for you to take him home,’ Zosimov commented to Razumikhin. ‘We'll see how he is tomorrow, but today at any rate he doesn't seem too bad at all: a remarkable change from earlier on. One lives and learns…’

‘Do you know what Zosimov whispered to me just now as we were on our way out?’ Razumikhin let drop as soon as they were out in the street. ‘I may as well tell you it all straight,
because they're such idiots. Zosimov said I was to talk to you a lot on the way and get you to talk a lot, too, and then to tell him what you'd said, because he's got the idea… that you’re… insane, or something like it. Can you imagine? For one thing, you're three times cleverer than he is, for another, if you're not insane you shouldn't give a damn that he's got such rubbish in his head, and for yet another, that lump of brawn, who's a surgeon by training, has now got a craze about mental illness, and what convinced him in your case was the conversation you had with Zamyotov earlier on today.’

‘Has Zamyotov told you everything?’

‘Yes, and it's just as well he did, too. I've got all the ins and outs of it now, and so has Zamyotov… Well, you see, Rodya, to put it bluntly… the fact is… I'm a bit drunk now… But it doesn't matter… the fact is that this idea… you know what I'm talking about?… really has popped up in their brains… do you know what I mean? That's to say, they didn't dare to say it out loud, because it's the most absurd rubbish, especially since the arrest of that housepainter, the whole thing just burst and vanished forever. Oh, why are they such idiots? Actually, at that point I gave Zamyotov a bit of a dusting – that's between ourselves, brother; please don't give the slightest hint that you know anything about it; I've noticed that he's a bit sensitive about things like that; it happened at Laviza's place – but today, today all has become clear. It's all that Ilya Petrovich fellow's fault! He took advantage of your fainting-fit at the bureau, and he himself was ashamed afterwards; I mean, I know he was…’

Raskolnikov listened avidly. Razumikhin was drunkenly blabbing.

‘I passed out that time because it was so stuffy, and there was a smell of oil-paint’, Raskolnikov said.

‘There's yet another explaining factor! And it wasn't just the paint, either: that fever of yours had been coming on for a whole month; Zosimov testifies to it! And as for that over-zealous greenhorn, he's really had the wind taken out of his sails, you simply can't imagine! “I'm not worth that man's little finger!” he says. Yours, he means. He's sometimes capable of having good feelings, brother. But the lesson, the lesson he got today in
the “Crystal Palace”, that beat everything! I mean, you really frightened the daylights out of him at first, nearly gave the poor chap a fit! You actually made him half believe all that outrageous nonsense and then suddenly – stuck your tongue out at him as if to say: “There, what do you make of that?” Perfect! Now he's shattered, destroyed! Why, you're a master, I do declare – that's the way to handle them. Oh, how I wish I'd been there! He was dying to meet you just now. Porfiry wants to get to know you, too…’

‘Ah… him too, now… And why have they decided I'm insane?’

‘Oh, not really insane. I think I've been saying too many things to you, brother… You see, what struck him was that you only seemed to be interested in that one point… Now it's clear why you found it interesting; knowing all the circumstances… and how that irritated you then and got mixed up with your illness… I'm a bit drunk, brother – it's just that, heaven only knows why, he's got some idea of his own about it… I tell you, he's got a craze about mental illness. But if I were you, I wouldn't give a damn…’

For some thirty seconds neither of them said anything.

‘Listen, Razumikhin,’ Raskolnikov said. ‘I want to tell you this straight: I've just been at the home of a man who's died, he was a civil servant… I gave all my money away there… and, what's more, I've just been kissed by a certain creature, who even if I'd killed someone would still have… and, to be brief, when I was there I saw yet another creature… with a bright orange feather… but actually, I'm talking a lot of nonsense; I'm very weak, please help me to stay upright… I mean, we'll soon be at the staircase…’

‘What's the matter with you? What is it?’ Razumikhin asked with alarm.

‘My head's going round a bit, but that's not what it is. It's that I feel so sad, so sad! Like a woman, really… Look, what's that? Look! Look!’

‘What on earth?’

‘Don't you see? There's a light in my room! Look, through the gap in the door…’

Now they stood facing the last flight of stairs, beside the landlady's door, and it really was true: from down there it was plainly evident that there was a light in Raskolnikov's room.

‘That's strange! Perhaps it's Nastasya,’ Razumikhin observed.

‘She never comes up to my room at this time of night, and anyway, she'll have gone to bed long ago, but… it's all the same to me! Goodbye!’

‘Don't be silly, we're going in there together. I'm seeing you home, remember?’

‘I know we're going in together, but I want to say goodbye to you out here. Well, give me your hand. Goodbye!’

‘What's the matter with you, Rodya?’

‘Nothing; come on up, then; you can be a witness…’

They began to climb the flight of stairs, and for a moment Razumikhin had a fleeting suspicion that Zosimov might be right. ‘Damn! I've gone and upset him with my chatter!’ he muttered to himself. Suddenly, as they approached the door, they heard voices from inside the room.

‘What on earth's going on in there?’ Razumikhin exclaimed.

Raskolnikov got to the door first and opened it wide. He stood on the threshold, transfixed.

His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa, where they had been awaiting him for the past hour and a half. Why was it that they were the very last people he had expected to meet, the very last people who had been on his mind, in spite of the fact that even that day he had had repeated confirmation of the news that they had left home, were on their way, would arrive at any time now? All during that hour and a half they had vied with each other in interrogating Nastasya, who even now was standing in front of them, having by this time managed to tell them the whole involved story. They had been out of their minds with fear on learning that he had ‘run away today’, not yet recovered from his illness and, as was evident from the story, still in delirium! ‘Oh God, what's wrong with him?’ Both had wept, and both had endured the torments of the cross during those one and a half hours of waiting.