Crime and Punishment (18 page)

Raskolnikov silently took the pages of German text and the three roubles, and left without saying a word. Razumikhin watched incredulously. But having already reached the First Line,
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Raskolnikov suddenly turned back, went up to Razumikhin again and, placing both the German pages and the three roubles on the desk, went off again without saying a word.

‘Have you got the
DT
s or what?' Razumikhin roared, finally
snapping. ‘Why this song and dance? You've even confused
me
 . . . Why the hell did you come in the first place?'

‘I don't want . . . any translations . . . ,' Raskolnikov muttered, already on his way down.

‘So what do you want?' Razumikhin yelled from above. Raskolnikov carried on down in silence.

‘Hey! Where do you live?'

No reply.

‘To hell with you, then!'

But Raskolnikov was already outside. On Nikolayevsky Bridge he was brought sharply to his senses once more by a nasty incident. A carriage-driver lashed him full on the back with his whip, as punishment for Raskolnikov very nearly getting himself run over by his horses, despite the driver shouting at him three or four times. The lash so enraged Raskolnikov that after jumping aside towards the railings (for some reason he'd been walking straight down the middle of the bridge, in the thick of the traffic) he began furiously grinding and gnashing his teeth. All around, needless to say, people laughed.

‘Had it coming!'

‘Con man!'

‘You know the score – makes out he's drunk and gets himself run over; and you're the one responsible.'

‘That's their game, dear man, that's their game . . .'

But at that moment, as he stood by the railings and continued to stare blankly and spitefully at the now distant carriage, rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone press money into his hand. He looked round: it was an elderly merchantwoman wearing a silk headband and goatskin shoes, accompanied by a girl in a hat, carrying a green parasol, probably her daughter. ‘Take it, father, for the love of Christ.' He took it and they walked on. A twenty-copeck piece. His clothes and general appearance were such that they could very easily have taken him for a beggar, a real copeck collector, and he probably had the lash of the whip to thank for receiving twenty copecks all at once – they must have taken pity on him.

He clenched the coin in his fist, walked on a few yards and turned to face the Neva, in the direction of the Palace. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the water was almost blue, a great rarity on the Neva. The cathedral's dome – which stands out better from here, on the bridge, some twenty yards before the chapel,
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than from any other spot – simply
shone, and through the pure air its every decoration was clearly discernible. The pain from the whip subsided and Raskolnikov forgot about the blow; one troubling and less than lucid thought was occupying his mind to the exclusion of all others. He stood and stared into the distance for a long while; he knew this spot particularly well. While attending university it often happened – a hundred times, perhaps, usually on his way home – that he would pause at precisely this spot, look intently at this truly magnificent panorama and every time be almost amazed by the obscure, irresolvable impression it made on him. An inexplicable chill came over him as he gazed at this magnificence; this gorgeous scene was filled for him by some dumb, deaf spirit
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 . . . He marvelled every time at this sombre, mysterious impression and, distrusting himself, put off any attempt to explain it. Now, all of a sudden, those old questions of his, that old bewilderment, came back to him sharply, and it was no accident, he felt, that they'd come back now. The simple fact that he'd stopped at the very same spot as before seemed outlandish and bizarre, as if he really had imagined that now he could think the same old thoughts as before, take an interest in the same old subjects and scenes that had interested him . . . such a short while ago. He almost found it funny, yet his chest felt so tight it hurt. In the depths, down below, somewhere just visible beneath his feet, this old past appeared to him in its entirety, those old thoughts, old problems, old subjects, old impressions, and this whole panorama, and he himself, and everything, everything . . . It was as if he were flying off somewhere, higher and higher, and everything was vanishing before his eyes . . . Making an involuntary movement with his hand, he suddenly sensed the twenty-copeck piece in his fist. He unclenched his hand, stared hard at the coin, drew back his arm and hurled the coin into the water; then he turned round and set off home. It felt as if he'd taken a pair of scissors and cut himself off from everyone and everything, there and then.

It was nearly evening when he reached his room, so he must have been walking for about six hours all told. Where he walked, how he got back – he remembered none of it. Undressing and quivering all over, like a horse ridden into the ground, he lay down on the couch, drew his greatcoat over himself and oblivion immediately followed . . .

He woke in deep twilight to a dreadful scream. God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such wailing, howling, grinding, weeping, beating, swearing – never before had he known anything like it. Never could he have even imagined such brutishness, such frenzy. He sat up in his
bed, frozen with horror and anguish. But the fighting, howling and swearing grew louder and louder. And now, to his utter astonishment, he could suddenly make out the voice of his landlady. She was howling, squealing, wailing, hurrying, rushing to get the words out, so that they all came out as one, begging for something – for the beating to cease, of course, for she was being beaten without mercy on the stairs. The voice of the man doing the beating had become so dreadful in its malice and fury that by now it was no more than a hoarse wheeze, but he too was saying something, he too was speaking quickly and unintelligibly, in a breathless rush. Suddenly Raskolnikov began trembling all over. He recognized this voice. It was the voice of Ilya Petrovich. Ilya Petrovich was here and he was beating the landlady! He was kicking her, banging her head against the step – that was obvious from the sounds, the howls, the blows! Was the world upside down? He could hear crowds gathering on every floor; all the way up the stairs he could hear voices, cries, footsteps, knocking, doors banging, people running over. ‘But why is this happening? Why? And how is it possible?' he kept repeating, seriously thinking that he'd gone quite crazy. But no, he could hear too clearly for that! But in that case they would be coming to him too now, ‘because . . . this must all be to do with that . . . yesterday . . . Lord!' He was about to reach for the hook and lock himself in, but his hand wouldn't move . . . and what was the use? Fear enveloped his soul like ice, exhausting him, numbing him . . . But now, finally, this whole racket, having lasted a good ten minutes, was gradually subsiding. The landlady groaned and sighed. Ilya Petrovich still threatened and swore . . . But now, at last he, too, seemed to quieten down; there was no sound from him at all. ‘Can he really have gone? God!' Yes, and that was the landlady going too, still groaning and crying . . . and that was her door banging shut . . . And that was all the people going back into their apartments from the stairs – gasping, bickering, calling out to each other, shouting, whispering. How many there seemed to be; as if the whole building had gathered. ‘God, can this really be happening? And why on earth did he come here?'

Raskolnikov collapsed onto the couch in exhaustion, but he was no longer able to close his eyes. He lay there for half an hour or so, experiencing such suffering and such boundless, unbearable horror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly, bright light poured into his room: Nastasya came in with a candle and a bowl of soup. Looking at him closely and seeing that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began laying out what she'd brought: bread, salt, the bowl, a spoon.

‘Expect you've not eaten since yesterday. Fancy knocking about town all day when you've got the shakes!'

‘Nastasya . . . why was the landlady beaten?'

She stared at him.

‘Who beat the landlady?'

‘Just now . . . half an hour ago. Ilya Petrovich, the district superintendent's assistant, on the stairs . . . Why did he have to beat her like that? And . . . why did he come?'

Frowning, Nastasya studied him in silence, for a very long time. Such scrutiny began to make him very uncomfortable, even frightened.

‘Nastasya, why aren't you saying anything?' he said at last in a timid, faint voice.

‘That's blood,' she finally answered softly, as though speaking to herself.

‘Blood! What blood?' he mumbled, turning pale and backing away towards the wall. Nastasya carried on looking at him in silence.

‘No one beat the landlady,' she said again in a stern, decisive voice.

He looked at her, barely breathing.

‘I heard it myself . . . I wasn't asleep . . . I was sitting up,' he said, more timidly still. ‘I listened for ages . . . The superintendent's assistant came . . . Everyone gathered on the stairs, from every apartment . . .'

‘No one came. That's your blood yelling inside you.
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That's when it can't get out and clots up your insides and you start seeing things . . . So are you eating or not?'

He didn't reply. Nastasya was still standing over him, staring at him and not leaving.

‘A drink, please . . . Nastasyushka.'

She went downstairs and returned a few minutes later with some water in a white earthenware jug; and that was the last he remembered. All he could recall was taking a swig of cold water from the jug and spilling some on his chest. Oblivion came over him.

Not that he was completely knocked out for the entire duration of his sickness: he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes semi-conscious. Much of it came back to him later. At one point it seemed to him that a big crowd was gathering around him, wanting to grab him and take him off somewhere, endlessly bickering and
arguing about him. At another he was suddenly alone in the room, everyone had left, everyone was scared of him, and only occasionally did someone open the door a fraction to take a look at him; they were threatening him, plotting amongst themselves, laughing and teasing him. Nastasya, he recalled, was often beside him; he could also make out one other person who seemed very familiar, but who it was exactly he couldn't quite tell, and he was upset about it and even cried. Sometimes it seemed he'd been lying in bed for a month already; at others he thought it was all one and the same day. But as for
that
 – well, he'd completely forgotten about
that
; yet not a minute passed without him remembering that he'd forgotten something that mustn't be forgotten – and he went through agony trying to recall it. Groaning, he would succumb to fury or to dreadful, unbearable terror. At such moments he wanted to get up and run away, but there was always someone holding him back, and once again he would lose all strength and awareness. At last, he came round fully.

This happened in the morning, at ten o'clock. At this hour, on bright days, a long shaft of sunlight would travel the length of his right wall and illuminate the corner next to the door. Nastasya was standing by his bed, along with another person, a total stranger, who was examining him with the greatest curiosity. This was a young lad wearing a peasant-style coat and a wispy beard – a messenger of some kind, by the look of him. His landlady was peering through the half-open door. Raskolnikov lifted himself up.

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

‘Well I never, he's woken up!' she said.

‘Indeed he has,' echoed the messenger. Realizing he had woken, the landlady, who was peeping in from the threshold, immediately drew the door to and made herself scarce. She'd always been shy and found any conversation or exchange of views very trying; she was about forty, large and fat, black-browed and black-eyed, kind-hearted from being large and lazy; and, as it happens, very easy on the eye. But needlessly coy.

‘And you . . . are?' he persisted, addressing the messenger directly. But at that moment the door opened again and, stooping a little, in walked Razumikhin.

‘A real ship's cabin!' he shouted on entering. ‘I always bang my head; and they call it an apartment! So you've woken up, brother? Pashenka, your landlady, just told me.'

‘He's just woken up now,' said Nastasya.

‘Indeed he has,' the messenger repeated with a little smile.

‘And who, pray, might you be?' asked Razumikhin, suddenly addressing him. ‘I, you see, am Vrazumikhin;
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not Razumikhin, as everyone calls me, but Vrazumikhin, a student, gentry by birth, and this is my friend. And who are you?'

‘I'm the messenger at our office, on behalf of the merchant Shelopayev, sir, and I've come on business, sir.'

‘Do sit down on this chair.' Razumikhin sat himself down on another, on the other side of the little table. ‘Good job you woke up, brother,' he continued, addressing Raskolnikov. ‘You've barely touched food or drink for four days. Except for the tea we gave you from a spoon. I brought Zosimov to see you twice. Remember Zosimov? He examined you closely and said straight away that it was nothing serious – a rush of blood to the head or something. Nerves playing up, he says, lousy nosh, not enough beer and horseradish, no wonder you're sick – but it's nothing, you'll be right as rain. He's a good egg, Zosimov! All the makings of a fine doctor. Well, sir, I'm not stopping you,' he said, addressing the messenger once more. ‘Would you care to explain your purpose? Note, dear Rodya, that this is already the second visit from their office; only before it wasn't this chap, but another, and the two of us had a bit of a chat. Who was that man who called in before you?'

‘That must have been the day before yesterday, yes indeed, sir. That would have been Alexei Semyonovich; also works in our office, sir.'

‘He's probably a bit brighter than you, wouldn't you say?'

‘Indeed, sir; a bit more impressive, sure enough.'

‘Admirable, admirable. Carry on, then.'

‘Well, sir, by way of Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, whom you will have heard of more than once, I suppose, and at the request of your mama, I have a remittance for you by way of our office,' the messenger began, addressing Raskolnikov directly. ‘In the event of your already being in possession of all your faculties, sir, I have thirty-five roubles to hand over, sir, seeing as Mr Shelopayev was instructed about this by Mr Vakhrushin, at the request of your mama, as per previously. Do you happen to know him, sir?'

‘Yes . . . I remember . . . Vakhrushin . . . ,' said Raskolnikov pensively.

‘Hear that? He knows the merchant Vakhrushin!' cried Razumikhin.
‘What was that about faculties? Still, I see that you're a bright spark, too. Well, well! It's always nice to hear clever talk.'

‘That is he, sir, Vakhrushin, Afanasy Ivanovich, and at the request of your mama, who sent a remittance by way of him as per previously, he did not refuse on this occasion either and just the other day, from his location, he instructed Mr Shelopayev to transfer thirty-five roubles to you, sir, in the hope that things look up, sir.'

‘“In the hope that things look up” – you've outdone yourself there; and the bit about “your mama” wasn't bad, either. So what d'you reckon? Is he or isn't he in full possession of his senses, eh?'

‘Not for me to say, sir. All I need is a little signature.'

‘He can manage that! What's that you've got – a book?'

‘A book, sir, yes indeed, sir.'

‘Give it here then. Right, Rodya, up you get. I'll support you. Just scribble Raskolnikov for him. Take the pen, brother – money's sweeter than syrup for us right now.'

‘No need,' said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.

‘No need for what?'

‘I won't sign.'

‘Hell's bells, man! What do you mean you won't sign?'

‘No need . . . for money . . .'

‘No need for money, he says! Now that's a lie, brother, as I'm your witness! Please don't be alarmed, he's just . . . wandering off again. Happens to him even when he's wide awake . . . You're a sensible man and we'll take him in hand. That's to say we'll simply take his hand and help him sign. Now, look lively . . .'

‘Why don't I call another time, sir.'

‘No, no, don't put yourself out. You're a sensible sort . . . Well now, Rodya, don't let's keep our guest . . . You can see he's waiting,' – and he prepared in all seriousness to guide Raskolnikov's hand.

‘Leave off! I'll do it myself . . . ,' said Raskolnikov, taking the pen and signing the book. The messenger took out the money and left.

‘Bravo! And now, brother, perhaps you're hungry?'

‘I am,' replied Raskolnikov.

‘Got any soup?'

‘Yesterday's,' replied Nastasya, who had been standing right there all this time.

‘Potato soup with rice?'

‘Potato and rice.'

‘I know it by heart. Well, let's have the soup, and some tea while you're at it.'

‘Coming up.'

Raskolnikov observed all this in deep astonishment and with dull, meaningless fear. He resolved to say nothing and wait: what next? ‘I don't think I'm raving,' he thought, ‘this seems real enough . . .'

Two minutes later Nastasya returned with the soup and announced that tea was also on its way. Two spoons and two plates had materialized, along with a salt cellar, a pepper pot, mustard for beef, and other things besides – a spread the likes of which he hadn't seen for ages. The tablecloth was clean.

‘Nastasyushka, we wouldn't say no to a couple of bottles of beer from Praskovya Pavlovna. That'd be just the thing, young lady.'

‘You're a fast one!' muttered Nastasya, and went off to do his bidding.

Raskolnikov continued to stare with the same wild intensity. Meanwhile Razumikhin moved over to him on the couch, cradled his head with bear-like clumsiness in his left arm, even though Raskolnikov could very well have sat himself up, and with his right hand brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth, having first blown on it several times lest it burnt him. But the soup was barely warm. Raskolnikov hungrily swallowed one spoonful, then another, then a third. But after feeding him a few more, Razumikhin suddenly stopped and declared that he would need to consult Zosimov before continuing.

Nastasya came in, bearing two bottles of beer.

‘Some tea as well?'

‘Yes.'

‘So bring that, too, Nastasya, quick as you can – no expert approval needed for tea, as far as I know. And here's the beer!' He sat down on his chair again, drew the soup and beef towards him and set about them as if he hadn't eaten for three days.

‘You know, brother, I dine here like this every day now,' he said through a mouth full of beef, ‘and it's all Pashenka's doing, your landlady, my dinner lady. Treats me like royalty. I don't insist on it, needless to say, but nor do I object. And here's Nastasya with the tea. She doesn't hang about! A drop of beer, Nastyenka?'

‘Enough of your mischief!'

‘A spot of tea?'

‘Well, all right.'

‘Help yourself. No, wait, I'll pour you a cup. You sit down here at the table.'

Without a moment's delay he poured out one cup, then another, abandoned his meal and moved over to the couch again. He cradled the patient's head in his left arm as before, lifted him up a bit and began giving him sips of tea with a little spoon, still blowing on it continuously and with particular zeal, as if the very crux of the remedy lay in this process of blowing. Raskolnikov said nothing and offered no resistance, despite feeling more than enough strength in himself to sit up on the couch unaided, enough not just to hold a spoon or cup, but even, perhaps, to walk. But some sort of strange, almost animal cunning suddenly prompted him to conceal his strength for the time being, to lie low, even to pretend that he was still not quite with it, if need be, while listening hard and trying to establish what was actually happening here. But his disgust proved too strong: after gulping down nine or ten spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly shook his head free, tetchily pushed the spoon away and fell back onto the pillows. He had real pillows beneath his head now – with feathers and clean slips; he noticed this, too, and took it into consideration.

‘Let's get Pashenka to send us up some raspberry jam, today, then we can make him a drink,' said Razumikhin, taking his seat again and tucking into his soup and beer.

‘And where's she going to find raspberries?' asked Nastasya, holding her tea-filled saucer on her five outspread fingers and filtering the tea into her mouth ‘through the sugar lump'.
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‘In a shop, my friend, that's where. Rodya, you've no idea what you've been missing. When, like a born swindler, you ran off that time without even telling me your address, I got so annoyed I decided to track you down and punish you. I set about it that very same day. I walked everywhere, asked everyone! I'd forgotten all about this place, your latest; not that there was anything to forget, mind you, seeing as I never knew. And as for your previous address – Kharlamov's house is all I remember, by the Five Corners. So I searched high and low for Kharlamov's house, only to discover that it wasn't Kharlamov's house at all, but Bukh's – funny how sounds can trip you up! Well then I really got mad. Got mad and headed off, come what may, to the address bureau the very next day and, just imagine, they found you in two minutes flat. You're on their books.'

‘I suppose I am!'

‘Too right. But General Kobelev now – no one could find him all the time I was there. But that's a long story. The second I barged in here, I immediately familiarized myself with all your affairs; all of them, brother, every last one. I know everything; ask her – she saw. I met Nikodim Fomich, had Ilya Petrovich pointed out to me, met the caretaker, met Mr Alexander Grigoryevich Zametov, head clerk in the police bureau here, and last of all I met Pashenka – the icing on the cake; ask her, she knows . . .'

‘He sweetened her up,' mumbled Nastasya with a cheeky grin.

‘You're sweet enough already, Nastasya Nikiforovna.'

‘You old dog!' exclaimed Nastasya and burst out laughing. ‘Anyway, I'm Petrovna, not Nikiforovna,' she suddenly added, once she'd stopped laughing.

‘We'll bear that in mind, young lady. So, brother, to cut a long story short, my first thought was to unleash a stream of electricity
13
on this whole place, so as to eradicate every last prejudice here once and for all; but Pashenka came out on top. I would never have thought, brother, that she was so, well . . .
avenante-
is
h
14
 . . . eh? Wouldn't you say?'

Raskolnikov said nothing, though his troubled gaze did not leave Razumikhin for one second, and now, too, he carried on staring right at him.

‘Not half,' Razumikhin went on, quite unembarrassed by the silence, as if he were echoing a reply, ‘not half, in every department.'

‘You beast!' shrieked Nastasya, for whom this conversation was, by all appearances, a source of sheer delight.

‘It's a crying shame, brother, that you got off on the wrong foot with her right from the word go. That wasn't the way to play it. After all, she has the most, well, surprising character! But more of that anon . . . I mean, how did you let things get to the stage where she permits herself not to send up dinner? And what about the promissory note? You must be mad, signing such things! And what about the wedding that was on the cards when her girl, Natalya Yegorovna, was still alive . . . I know everything! But I see this is a delicate topic and I'm an ass. Forgive me. Talking of stupidity, Praskovya Pavlovna – Pashenka – isn't half as stupid as you might think, eh?'