Crime and Punishment (78 page)

‘But what's the matter with you, Rodion Romanovich? You don't seem at all yourself. You listen and look, yet you don't seem to take anything in. You must pull yourself together. Look, we'll have a talk; it's just a pity I have so much business to attend to, both my own and other people's… Ah, Rodion Romanovich, sir,’ he added suddenly, ‘all human beings need air, air, air… That above all else!’

He suddenly stepped aside in order to let a priest and a deacon pass up the stairs. They were going to perform the service for the dead. In accordance with the arrangements he had made, these services were being held punctually twice a day. Svidrigailov continued on his rounds. Raskolnikov stood for a while in reflection and then followed the priest into Sonya's lodgings.

He stood in the doorway. Quietly, decorously, mournfully, the service was beginning. In the consciousness of death and the sense of its presence there had always been for him something gloom-ridden and mystically horrible, ever since he had been a child; it was also a long time since he had heard a funeral mass sung. But here there was something else, too, something that contained an excess of horror and disquiet. He looked at the children: they were all on their knees beside the coffin, and Polya was crying. Behind them, weeping quietly and almost timidly, Sonya was praying. ‘You know, she hasn't looked at me once during these last few days, and she hasn't said a word to me,’ Raskolnikov suddenly thought. The sun was illuminating the room brightly; the smoke from the censer rose in clouds as the priest sang: ‘Make their souls to rest, O Lord.’ Raskolnikov
stood throughout the entire service. As he performed the blessing and the parting, the priest seemed to look around him strangely. After the service, Raskolnikov went over to Sonya. She suddenly took him by both hands and leant her head against his shoulder. This brief gesture struck Raskolnikov with intense bewilderment; it was positively uncanny. What – did she feel not the slightest revulsion, not the slightest loathing for him, was there not the slightest tremor in her hand? This was some strange infinity of self-humiliation. That, at any rate, was how he read it. Sonya did not say anything. Raskolnikov gave her hand a squeeze and went out. He had begun to feel horribly gloomy. If it had been possible for him to go away somewhere just then and be completely alone, even though it were to be for the rest of his life, he would have counted himself a lucky man. The difficulty was that even though he had been almost constantly alone during these recent days, he had never once felt that he was alone. On occasion he had strolled into the suburbs, walked out along the high road, once even wandered into some wood or other; but the more secluded the location, the more powerfully he had seemed to sense someone's close and disturbing presence – not a particularly frightening one, but a very irritating one, with the result that he quickly went back to the town, mingled with the crowd, went into the inns and drinking dens, visited the secondhand stalls, the Haymarket. There he felt easier, even more secluded. There was one eating-house where, towards evening, people began singing songs; he sat for a whole hour, listening, and he recalled that he had really enjoyed himself very much. In the end, however, he had suddenly felt anxious again; it was as though his conscience had begun to bother him. ‘Here I am, sitting listening to songs, when it's the last thing I ought to be doing!’ he found himself thinking. What was more, he instantly realized that this was not the only thing that was bothering him; there was some problem that demanded an immediate solution, but what it was he could neither formulate in his mind nor give utterance to in words. Everything seemed to have wound itself into some kind of a ball. ‘No, better to resume the struggle again! Better Porfiry again… or Svidrigailov… What I want is some kind of challenge again, an attack
from someone to fend off… Yes! That's what I want!’ he thought. He left the eating-house and very nearly broke into a run. For some reason, the thought of Dunya and his mother had suddenly filled him with panic terror. That night he had woken up before dawn in some bushes on Krestovsky Island, chilled to the very core, in a fever; he had set off home at once, arriving there in the early morning. After a few hours of sleep the fever had passed, but when he woke up it was late: two o'clock in the afternoon.

He remembered that today was the day of Katerina Ivanovna's funeral, and he felt relieved at having missed it. Nastasya brought him some food; he ate and drank with great appetite, almost with voracity. His head was clearer, and he felt calmer than he had done these last three days. He even had a fleeting sense of wonder when he remembered his earlier panic terror. The door opened and in walked Razumikhin.

‘Aha! He's eating, so he can't be ill!’ Razumikhin said, taking a chair and sitting down at the table facing Raskolnikov. He was worried, and made no attempt to conceal the fact. He spoke with visible annoyance, but without hurrying and without particularly raising his voice. One could suppose that some special resolve, exclusive of all else, had taken root in him. ‘Listen,’ he began, decisively. ‘I don't give a damn about any of you, but the way I see this business now I'm quite clear about one thing and that's that I'm completely baffled; please don't think that I've come to interrogate you. I couldn't care a spit about that! Nothing could be further from my mind! Even if you were to reveal everything to me, all your secrets, I probably wouldn't listen, I'd spit and leave. The only reason I've come here is in order to find out, once and for all, person to person, whether it's true that you're mad or not! You see, there's a conviction in certain quarters (oh, just somewhere around) that you may be a madman, or have a very decided leaning that way. I must confess to you that I myself have been strongly inclined to support that opinion, in the first place because of the stupid and rather vile things you've been doing (things that defy all explanation), and in the second place because of your recent behaviour towards your mother and sister. Only a monster and
a villain, if not a madman, could have acted towards them as you have; and consequently, you're a madman…’

‘When did you see them?’

‘I've only just left them. And I suppose you haven't seen them since that day, have you? Where is it you go gadding around, tell me that, will you, please? I've already been here three times looking for you. Your mother has been seriously ill ever since yesterday. She wanted to come and see you; Avdotya Romanovna tried to stop her, but she wouldn't listen: “If he's ill,” she said, “if his mind's disturbed, who's going to help him if not his own mother?” So we all came here – we couldn't just leave her on her own. We kept begging her to calm down all the way to your door. We came in, but you weren't here; she sat right there. She went on sitting for ten minutes, while we stood over her, not saying a word. Then she got up and said: “If he's gone out he must be all right, and he's forgotten about his mother, and in that case it's not at all the right thing for his mother to do, to stand on his threshold begging for kindness like alms – she ought to be ashamed.” She went home and took to her bed; now she has a fever: “I can see he has time for
that girl of his
,” she said. She thinks Sofya Semyonovna's your finacee or your mistress or something, I don't know. I immediately went off to see Sofya Semyonovna, because, brother, I wanted to find out the whole story – when I got there I looked: the coffin was there, the children were crying. Sofya Semyonovna was measuring them, making little mourning outfits for them. You weren't there. I took a glance round, made my excuses and left, and then went back and reported to Avdotya Romanovna. So all that was nonsense, and there was no
girl of yours
, and so the likeliest explanation was madness. But here you are wolfing boiled beef as though you hadn't eaten for three days. Oh, I know that madmen eat, too, but even though you haven't said a word to me yet, I know that you’re… not mad! That I will swear! Anything else, but not mad. And so I say the devil take you all, because there's some sort of mystery here, some sort of secret; and I don't intend to cudgel my brains over your secrets. I've simply come in order to shout at you,’ he
concluded, getting up, ‘to let off steam – and I know what I'm going to do now!’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘What business is it of yours?’

‘You'd better be careful – you're going out to get drunk!’

‘How… how did you know?’

‘There, I was right, wasn't I?’

Razumikhin said nothing for a moment.

‘You've always been a very cool-headed chap and you've never ever been mad,’ he said suddenly, with heat. ‘You're right: I
am
going out to get drunk! Goodbye!’ And he started to go.

‘I was talking about you to my sister, Razumikhin – the day before yesterday, I think it was.’

‘About me? But… where could you have seen her the day before yesterday?’ Razumikhin said, coming to a sudden halt and even turning a little pale. One could guess that his heart was beating slowly and violently within him.

‘She came here on her own, sat here and talked to me.’

‘She did?’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘What did you tell her… about me, I mean?’

‘I told her that you were a very good, honest and hardworking man. I didn't tell her that you love her, because she knows that already.’

‘She does?’

‘There I go, right again! Wherever I go, whatever happens to me, you must remain their Providence. I'm going to hand them over to you, as it were, Razumikhin. I say that because I'm fully aware how much you love her, and I'm convinced of the purity of your heart. I also know that she might be able to love you, and may even do so already. Now make your decision as you think fit – whether you should go out and get drunk or not.’

‘Rodya, old chap… Look… I mean… Oh, the devil! But where are you going? Look: if all this is a secret, then forget it! But I… I'll find out your secret… And I'm absolutely certain it's a lot of nonsense and pernicious nonsense at that, and that you dreamed it all up yourself. The fact is that in spite of it
all, you're really an excellent chap! A most excellent chap… !’

‘What I was going to add, before you interrupted me, was that you made a very sensible choice just now in saying that you didn't intend to find out what these mysteries and secrets are. Leave it for the time being, don't trouble your head about it. You'll find out everything in good time, when it's right for you to know. Yesterday a man told me that what human beings need is air, air! I intend to go and see him now and ask him what he meant by that.’

Razumikhin stood in agitated reflection, trying to make sense of it all.

‘He's mixed up in a political conspiracy! He must be! And he's on the point of taking some decisive step – it's for certain! There can be no other explanation and… and Dunya knows…’ he suddenly thought to himself.

‘So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you,’ he said, making the words scan in rhythm, ‘and you want to go and see a man who says that what's needed is more air, more air and… and I suppose that letter… is also part of it,’ he concluded, almost to himself.

‘What letter?’

‘She had a letter today, it upset her terribly, terribly. You have no idea. I started talking about you – she asked me to be quiet. Then… then she said that we might soon be saying goodbye to each other, and then she began to thank me for something in an effusive sort of way; then she went back to her room and wouldn't talk to me any more.’

‘She had a letter?’ Raskolnikov asked, reflectively.

‘Yes, that's right; didn't you know? Hm.’

They both said nothing.

‘Goodbye, Rodion. You know, brother… there was a time when I… but it doesn't matter; goodbye. You see, there was a time… Well, goodbye! I must be going, too. I shan't do any drinking. I don't need to now… Oh, you're making it all up!’

He began to hurry; as he was on his way out, however, and having almost closed the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again and said, looking rather to one side:

‘Oh, by the way, you remember that murder, the one Porfiry
was talking about: you know, the old woman? Well, listen, they've found the murderer, he turned himself in and provided all the evidence himself. It was one of those workmen, the decorators, just imagine – you remember how I was defending them? Would you believe it – he purposely arranged that whole scene on the stairs, laughing and fighting with his mate as the others, the yardkeeper and the two other witnesses, were going up, it was meant to create a diversion. What cunning, what presence of mind in such a young puppy! It's hard to credit; yet he showed persistence, confessed to the whole thing! And how I went and fell for it! Oh well, in my opinion that fellow's nothing more nor less than a genius of dissimulation and inventiveness, a genius of the juridical ploy – and so I suppose there's nothing particularly astonishing about it! Are there really people like that? What gives him even more credibility in my eyes is the fact that he became a victim of his own temperament and confessed. That makes it all the more plausible… But oh, how I put my foot in it that time! I was practically climbing up and down the walls in my zeal to defend them!’

‘I say, I wonder if you'd mind telling me where you found out about this and why it interests you so much?’ Raskolnikov asked, visibly perturbed.

‘Now there's a question! Why does it interest me? You can seriously ask that?… Why, I found out from Porfiry, among other people. Actually, I found out nearly all of it from him.’

‘From Porfiry?’

‘That's right.’

‘What… what did he say?’ Raskolnikov asked, in a frightened voice.

‘He cleared it all up for me in the most excellent manner. Gave me a psychological elucidation, after his own method.’

‘He did?
He
cleared it up for you?’

‘Yes, he himself. But look, goodbye for now, I must be off. I'll tell you all about it later, but right now I've business to attend to. I must say there was… one moment when I thought… Oh, but never mind – later! I've no need to go off bingeing now. You've made me drunk without my ever going near the
stuff. I mean, I'm drunk, Rodka! I'm drunk without vodka. Well, goodbye; I'll look in again, very soon.’