Crime and Punishment (41 page)

‘Oh, why do you keep trying to get things out of me?’ Razumikhin cried irritably. ‘How should I know whether they have or they haven't? Ask them yourself, and perhaps you'll find out…’

‘God, how stupid you are sometimes! You've still got that vodka in you… Goodbye, then; thank Praskovya Pavlovna for letting me spend the night here. She locked herself in and didn't say anything in reply when I shouted “
bonjour
” this morning. But she got up at seven and had the samovar brought to her room across the passage from the kitchen… I had the honour of setting eyes on her.’

At exactly nine o'clock Razumikhin presented himself at Bakaleyev's Tenements. Both ladies had been long awaiting him in hysterical impatience. They had risen at seven, or even earlier. He entered with a gloom like that of the night and paid his compliments in a clumsy fashion, whereupon he at once lost his temper – at himself, of course. He had bargained without the mistress of the chamber: Pulkheria Aleksandrovna fairly hurled herself at him; she seized him by both hands and very nearly kissed them. He cast a timid glance at Avdotya Romanovna; at the present moment, however, that haughty countenance displayed an expression of such gratitude and benevolence, such complete and unanticipated respect for him (in place of those mocking looks and automatic, ill-disguised contempt!), that he would have found it easier had they greeted him with abuse – as it was, the whole situation confused him utterly. Luckily there was a ready subject of conversation, and he lost no time in grasping hold of it.

On hearing that he had not woken up yet, but that ‘everything was fine’, Pulkheria Aleksandrovna declared that this was just as well, ‘because I very, very, very much want to talk things over with you first’. This was followed by an inquiry about whether he would like tea, and an invitation to have some with them; they themselves had not yet had any, in expectation of his arrival. Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell. At her summons a dirty, ragged fellow appeared, and was instructed to bring tea,
which was eventually served, but in so dirty and improper a manner as to make the ladies feel ashamed. Razumikhin began to deliver some energetic criticism of the establishment, but, remembering Luzhin, fell silent, grew embarrassed, and was thoroughly relieved when at last Pulkheria Aleksandrovna's questions began to rain down in a ceaseless shower.

In replying to them, he talked for three-quarters of an hour, being constantly interrupted and asked to repeat, and managed to convey to them all the major and essential facts concerning the most recent year of Raskolnikov's life, concluding with a detailed account of his illness. There was, however, much that for obvious reasons he left out, such as the scene at the bureau, with all its consequences. His story was listened to with eagerness; but just when he thought he had finished and had satisfied the demands of his listeners, it proved that as far as they were concerned he had hardly begun.

‘Look, you must tell me, you must tell me what you think… Oh, I'm sorry, I still don't know your first names,’ Pulkheria Aleksandrovna said hastily.

‘Dmitry Prokofich.’

‘Well, then, Dmitry Prokofich, I should very, very much like to know… the way he… sees things now, or rather, you understand, how can I explain to you, let me put it this way: what are his preferences and aversions? Is he always so irritable? What does he want, or better still, what does he dream about? What is it that's having such a peculiar effect on him just now? In short, I'd like to…’

‘Oh, mother, how can he possibly answer all those questions at once?’ Dunya commented.

‘Good heavens – you see I really never, never expected to find him like this, Dmitry Prokofich.’

‘That's perfectly natural, madam,’ Dmitry Prokofich replied. ‘My mother's dead, but well, my uncle comes up to town every year and on each occasion he fails to recognize me, even outwardly, and he's an intelligent man; well, and during the three years you've been apart a lot of water has passed under the bridge. What can I say? I've known Rodion for one and a half years: he's a morose sort of chap – gloomy, stand-offish and
proud; recently (and for all I know not so recently, as well) he's been over-anxious, with a tendency to hypochondria. But sometimes it's not hypochondria at all that he's suffering from, he's simply cold and unfeeling to the point of inhumanity, it's really just as though there were two opposing characters alternating within him. He's sometimes unconscionably short on conversation! It's all: “I've no time, stop bothering me”, yet he just lies there not doing anything. He doesn't mock, yet it's not because he doesn't have enough wit, but rather as though he didn't have enough time for such trivial matters. He doesn't listen to what people say to him. He's never interested in what everyone else is interested in at any given moment. He has a fearfully high opinion of himself, and perhaps not entirely without justification. Well, what else?… I think your arrival will have a most salutary effect on him.’

‘Oh my God, I do hope so!’ Pulkheria Aleksandrovna exclaimed, worried to death by this character report of Razumikhin's on her Rodya.

And at last Razumikhin directed a more cheerful look at Avdotya Romanovna. During the course of his account he had frequently glanced at her, but fleetingly, just for an instant, immediately averting his gaze. Some of the time Avdotya Romanovna would sit down at the table, listening attentively; every so often, however, she would get up again and begin to walk, as was her habit, from one corner of the room to another, her arms folded, her lips pressed tight, from time to time inserting a question of her own, but without ceasing her walk, and lost in reflection. She was also in the habit of not listening to what anyone said. She was wearing a dark-coloured dress made of some thin material, and a white, transparent scarf was tied at her throat. By many signs Razumikhin had at once been able to tell that the two women were in extremely impoverished straits. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he would not have been afraid of her in the slightest; but now, perhaps precisely because she was so poorly dressed and because he had taken cognizance of the niggardly means at their disposal, fear became implanted in his heart, and he began to worry about the effect of his every word, his every gesture – something which
was, to say the least, inconvenient for a man who already felt unsure of himself.

‘You have told us many interesting things about the character of my brother, and… have told them dispassionately. That is good; I believed you went rather in awe of him,’ Avdotya Romanovna commented with a smile. ‘I also think it's true what you said: that he needs a woman to look after him,’ she added, in reflection.

‘I didn't say that, but perhaps you're right about that – only…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I mean, there's no one he loves; there probably never will be,’ Razumikhin said, abruptly.

‘You mean he's incapable of loving anyone?’

‘You know, Avdotya Romanovna, you're extraordinarily like your brother in every respect!’ he suddenly blurted out, unexpectedly even to himself, but at once, remembering the things he had just told her about her brother, blushed like a beetroot and grew terribly confused.

‘I think you may both be wrong about Rodya,’ Pulkheria Aleksandrovna interjected, somewhat piqued. ‘I'm not talking about the way he's behaving at present, Dunechka. The things Pyotr Petrovich writes in this letter… and the things you and I have assumed… may be untrue, but you cannot imagine, Dmitry Prokofich, what a fantastical imagination Rodya has and – how shall I put it? – how capricious he is. I was never able to trust his character, not even when he was only fifteen years old. I am certain that even now he may go and do something to himself that no one else would ever think of doing… And one doesn't have to look far: have you any idea of how he shocked, amazed and very nearly killed me that time a year and a half ago when he decided to marry that girl, what was her name – the daughter of that Zarnitsyna woman, his landlady?’

‘Are you familiar with any of the details of that episode?’ Avdotya Romanovna inquired.

‘Do you suppose,’ Pulkheria Aleksandrovna went on heatedly, ‘that anything would have stopped him – even though I cried bitter tears, got down on my knees to him, even though I
was ill, might have died of grief, even though we were destitute? As calm as you please, he would have stepped over every obstacle. Oh, does he really, really not love us?’

‘He's never ever told me about that episode,’ Razumikhin answered cautiously, ‘though I heard a few bits here and there from Mrs Zarnitsyna herself, who is not, it must be said, one of nature's storytellers, and the things I heard were, as a matter of fact, rather strange…’

‘What, what did you hear?’ both women asked at once.

‘Oh, nothing much in particular. All I found out was that this marriage, which had been arranged in every particular and only failed to take place because of the death of the bride, did not at all carry Mrs Zarnitsyna's approval… It was said, moreover, that the bride was not at all good-looking, that she was, indeed, very ugly… terribly ailing… and strange… yet I think she must have had certain merits; otherwise it's impossible to understand… There was no dowry, either, and he would never have expected one, anyway… As a rule it's difficult to make judgements in cases like that.’

‘I'm sure she was a decent girl,’ Avdotya Romanovna said, crisply.

‘God forgive me, I was so relieved when she died, even though I don't know which of them would have been worse for the other: would he have destroyed her, or would she have destroyed him?’ Pulkheria Aleksandrovna said in conclusion; then cautiously, with hesitations in her speech and constant glances at Dunya, which Dunya obviously found annoying, she began once more to ask questions about the scene that had taken place the day before between Rodya and Luzhin. It was clear that this event was what had unsettled her most of all, to the point of fear and trembling. Once again Razumikhin went over the whole story in detail, this time, however, adding an ending of his own: he directly accused Raskolnikov of a calculated plan to insult Pyotr Petrovich, and this time he made little reference to the excuse of illness.

‘He thought that up before he fell ill,’ he added.

‘That's what I think, too,’ Pulkheria Aleksandrovna said, with a depressed look. She was, however, particularly struck
that on this occasion Razumikhin spoke of Pyotr Petrovich in such cautious terms, even, she thought, displaying a certain respect. Avdotya Romanovna was also struck by this.

‘So that is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovich, is it?’ Pulkheria Aleksandrovna could not restrain herself from asking.

‘Where the future husband of your daughter is concerned, I can't be of any other opinion,’ Razumikhin replied firmly and with heat, ‘and I don't say that out of mere vulgar politeness, but because… because… well if you like for the simple reason that Avdotya Romanovna herself, of her own free will, has conferred her choice upon this man. My berating him the way I did last night you may attribute to the fact that I was filthy drunk and also… reckless; yes, reckless, taken leave of my senses, mad, completely mad… and this morning I'm ashamed of it!’ His face reddened, and he fell silent. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not break her silence. She had not uttered a single word from the moment they had begun to talk about Luzhin.

Meanwhile, in the absence of her support, Pulkheria Aleksandrovna was clearly in a state of indecision. At last, hesitantly, and constantly looking at her daughter, she announced that there was something which at present was causing her extreme worry.

‘You see, Dmitry Prokofich,’ she began. ‘May I be completely frank with Dmitry Prokofich, Dunechka?’

‘Of course, mother,’ Avdotya Romanovna said, encouragingly.

‘It's like this,’ her mother began in a hurry, as though this permission to communicate her grief had removed a mountain from her heart. ‘Very early this morning we received a note from Pyotr Petrovich, replying to the one we sent him yesterday announcing our arrival. He was supposed to meet us at the station yesterday, you see, the way he'd promised. But instead he sent some manservant to meet us, with the address of these rooms and instructions on how to find our way here, and the message that he would come here himself this morning. But instead this note arrived from him this morning… the best thing would be for you to read it yourself; it contains a point
that causes me great concern… you'll see what it is yourself in a moment, and I want you to… give me your honest opinion, Dmitry Prokofich. You know Rodya better than anyone, and you're the best person to advise us. I should warn you that Dunechka made her mind up as soon as she read it, but I – well, I'm still not sure what to do, and… and I've been waiting for you…’

Razumikhin unfolded the note, which was marked with the previous day's date and read the following:

Dear Madam, Pulkheria Aleksandrovna,

It is my honourable duty to inform you that, because of certain sudden and unavoidable delays, I have been unable to meet you on the platform, sending to that purpose a man well capable of the task. I shall also forgo the honour of meeting you tomorrow morning, on account of certain business at the Senate which will brook no postponement, and also for the reason that I do not wish to intrude upon your reunion with your son and on that of Avdotya Romanovna with her brother. I shall not have the honour of visiting you and greeting you in your accommodation until tomorrow evening at eight o'clock precisely. In this regard I must venture to append the earnest and, I would add, urgent request that Rodion Romanovich not be present at our joint meeting, as in the course of my sick-visit to him yesterday he insulted me in an unprecedented and discourteous manner, and as, moreover, I am anxious to have an urgent personal discussion with you in respect of a certain point, your own interpretation of which I am desirous to learn. I have the honourable duty to warn you in advance that if, contrary to my request, I encounter Rodion Romanovich, I shall have no option but to leave without further ado, and for that you will have only yourselves to blame. I write, moreover, in the supposition that Rodion Romanovich, who at the time of my visit to him yesterday appeared so ill, two hours later suddenly recovered, and that, since he is able to go out of doors, he may arrive at your address. I received confirmation of this with my own eyes yesterday, at the lodgings of a certain drunkard who was run down by horses and has since died of his injuries; to the daughter
of this man, an unmarried woman of immoral conduct, he gave a sum amounting to twenty-five roubles, on the pretext of funeral expenses, an action that surprised me greatly, knowing as I do the difficulty you had in raising the said amount. In spite of all this, however, and in testimony to my especial esteem for your respected daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the sentiments of respectful devotion on the part of