Crime and Punishment (27 page)

What woke him up was the sound of someone coming up to his room. Opening his eyes, he saw Razumikhin, who had opened the door wide and was standing in the threshold, wondering whether to go in or not. Raskolnikov quickly sat up on the sofa and looked at him, as though making an effort to remember something.

‘Ah, you're awake! Well, here I am! Nastasya, bring the bundle up here!’ Razumikhin shouted down the staircase. ‘In a second or two I'll show you how I spent the money…’

‘What time is it?’ asked Raskolnikov, looking round him uneasily.

‘Why, you've slept in grand style, brother; it's evening outside, it must be about six o'clock. You've been asleep for about six hours and a bit…’

‘Good Lord! What's wrong with me?…’

‘What's wrong with you? It'll have done you good. Where's
the hurry? Off to a rendezvous, or something? Now all our time's our own. I've already been waiting for you for about three hours; I looked in a couple of times, but you were asleep. I went to call on Zosimov twice: nothing doing – he wasn't in! But don't worry, he'll be along!… I also took a bit of time off to see to my own paltry affairs. You see, I moved today, moved completely, together with my uncle. I've got an uncle living with me now, you see… But to hell with that – to our task!… Give me the bundle over here, Nastenka. Now, we'll just… Er, how are you feeling, brother?’

‘I'm all right. I'm not ill… Razumikhin, have you been here long?’

‘I told you, I've been waiting for three hours.’

‘No, but before that.’

‘What do you mean, before?’

‘How long is it since you began these visits to the house?’

‘But, I mean – I told you all that this morning; or have you forgotten?’

Raskolnikov began to reflect. The events of that morning flitted before him as in a dream. He was unable to recall them single-handed, and looked questioningly at Razumikhin.

‘Hm!’ Razumikhin said. ‘You have forgotten! Why, even just this morning I thought you weren't yet in your… Yet now your sleep has made you recover… You really do look a lot better. Good for you, lad! But now to business! You'll remember it all in a jiffy. Look what I have here, my dear fellow.’

He began to undo the bundle, on which he had obviously lavished a good deal of care.

‘Believe me, brother, this is something that lies particularly close to my heart. For we must make a proper human being of you. Let's get on with it; we'll start at the top. Do you see this little casquette?’ he began, producing from the bundle a fairly decent but at the same time very ordinary and cheap-quality peaked cap. ‘Would you like to try it on?’

‘Later, afterwards,’ Raskolnikov said, brushing it aside peevishly.

‘No, brother Rodya, don't be quarrelsome – afterwards it'll be too late; and besides, I shan't be able to get a wink of sleep
all night, because I don't know your size, I bought it on a guess. Perfect!’ he exclaimed triumphantly, having tried it on Raskolnikov's head. ‘It fits perfectly! What a man wears on his head, brother, is the most important item of his costume – it's a kind of introduction, in a way. Every time my friend Tolstyakov goes into one of those public places, he sees that all the other gents standing there are wearing caps and hats, and he finds himself compelled to remove his own humble lid. Everyone thinks he does it because he has servile feelings, but it's really because he's ashamed of that birds’ nest of his: he's a man with a sense of shame! Well now, Miss Nastenka, here are two items of headdress for you: this grand old Palmerston’ (he produced from the corner Raskolnikov's mangled round hat, which for some unknown reason he had given the name Palmerston), ‘or this intricate little knick-knack. What's your guess, Rodya – how much do you think I paid for it? How about you, Nastasyushka?’ he said, turning to her, observing that Raskolnikov was not going to say anything.

‘I should think it cost you twenty copecks,’ Nastasya replied.

‘Twenty copecks, you brainless girl?’ he exclaimed, taking offence. ‘Why, one couldn't even buy you for twenty copecks these days – it cost eighty! And that was only because it's been worn. But then, it carries a guarantee: if you wear it out this year, they'll give you another next year for nothing, so they will! Now, let us proceed to the United American States, as they used to be called in the gymnasium I attended. I must warn you that I'm rather proud of the breeches!’ And in front of Raskolnikov he stretched out a pair of grey trousers, made of a light summer woollen material. ‘They bear not a hole nor a stain, and they're not bad at all, even though they are a bit worn, and there's a waistcoat to go with them, the same colour, as fashion requires. Actually, the fact that the stuff's been worn is a positive advantage: it's softer, more comfortable… You see, Rodya, it's my opinion that in order for a man to make his way in the world, it's sufficent for him always to observe the seasons; if one doesn't demand asparagus in January one may keep a few roubles in one's purse, and the same thing applies to the purchase before you now. At present it is summer, so I have made a summer
purchase, because for autumn you'll need things made of warmer material, and you'll have to throw these ones away… all the more so since by that time this stuff will have fallen to bits, if not because of its increased splendour, then because of certain inner defects. Well, give me your guess! How much, do you suppose? Two roubles and twenty-five copecks! And remember, again there's the same guarantee: if you wear these out this year, you may take some others next year for nothing! Those are the only terms of trade at Fedyayev's shop: you pay your money once and you get goods to last all your life, because otherwise you'd never go near the place again. Well, now, let's proceed to the boots – what do you think? I mean, it's easy to see they've been worn, yet they'll answer perfectly for a month or two, as they're foreign craftsmanship and foreign manufacture: the secretary of the British Embassy sold them at the fleamarket last week; he'd only been wearing them for six days, but he needed the money badly. The price was one rouble fifty copecks. All right?’

‘But they may not fit!’ Nastasya observed.

‘Not fit? What do you think this is?’ And from his pocket he hauled one of Raskolnikov's old, stiffened boots, caked all over with dried mud and full of holes. ‘I took this monster along in reserve, and by measuring it they were able to determine his size. The whole business was conducted in a most cordial fashion. And as for his linen, I've had a word with the landlady. Here, to start with, are three shirts, coarse-cloth ones, but fashionably styled on the outside… Well, so: eighty copecks for the cap, two roubles twenty-five for the rest of the clothes, that makes three roubles and five copecks; a rouble fifty for the boots – because they're very nice ones – so that comes to four fifty-five, and five roubles inclusive for the linen – they were bought wholesale – so the whole lot comes to nine roubles and fifty-five copecks exactly. There's forty-five copecks change, in copper fives, here, please take them – and so Rodya, now your wardrobe is completely renewed, as in my opinion your coat is not merely still serviceable, but actually possesses an air of a certain nobility: that's what one gets when one orders one's clothes from Sharmer's!
⁵
As for socks and the rest, I'll leave that
up to you; we've twenty-five roubles left, and you don't need to worry about Pashenka and paying the rent; I told you: I've got the most unlimited credit with her. And now, brother, you must please let me change your linen for you, or else your germs will probably just go on lingering in your shirt…’

‘Stop it! I don't want all this!’ Raskolnikov protested, warding him off, having listened with revulsion to Razumikhin's strained efforts at humour in his account of how he had bought the clothes.

‘It's no good making a fuss, brother; I haven't worn my boot-leather out for nothing!’ Razumikhin insisted. ‘Nastasyushka, don't be so embarrassed, come and help me, that's right!’ And in spite of Raskolnikov's protests, he none the less managed to change his linen. Raskolnikov fell back on the pillows and for a couple of minutes did not say a word.

‘They're not going to leave me alone for a long time yet!’ he thought. ‘Out of whose money did you buy all this?’ he asked, at last, looking at the wall.

‘Whose money? What questions you do ask! Why, your own, of course. That money messenger was here this morning, from Vakhrushin's, your mother sent it; or have you forgotten?’

‘I remember now…’ said Raskolnikov, after a long and morose bout of reflection. Frowning, Razumikhin kept glancing at him uneasily.

The door opened, and there entered a tall, thick-set man, whom Raskolnikov also thought looked somewhat familiar.

‘Zosimov! At last!’ Razumikhin exclaimed, in relief.

Zosimov was a big, fat man with a puffy, colourlessly pale and smooth-shaven face, and straight, very fair hair. He wore spectacles, and on one of his fat-swollen fingers there was a large gold ring. He must have been about twenty-seven. He was dressed in a light, capacious and stylish paletot, light-coloured summer trousers, and in general everything about him was ample, stylish and brand-new; his linen was immaculate, his
watch-chain massive. His manner was slow, giving an impression of being at once languid and at the same time studiedly familiar; although he did his utmost to conceal them, his pretensions to superiority showed through at every moment. Everyone who had anything to do with him found him a hard man to get along with, but said that he knew his job.

‘I've been to your place twice today, brother… You see? He's woken up!’ cried Razumikhin.

‘I see, I see; well, so what are we feeling like now, eh?’ Zosimov said as he turned to Raskolnikov, peering at him fixedly and coming to sit at his feet on the sofa, where he immediately sprawled into a lounging position, as far as was possible.

‘Oh, he's in a constant fit of spleen,’ Razumikhin went on. ‘We changed his linen just now, and he practically burst into tears.’

‘That's natural; you could have left the linen until later, if he didn't want it changed… His pulse is first-rate. I expect you've still got a bit of a headache, eh?’

‘I'm all right, I'm perfectly all right!’ Raskolnikov said, insistently and with irritation. Suddenly he sat up on the sofa, his eyes flashing, but immediately collapsed back on to the pillow and turned his face to the wall. Zosimov was observing him fixedly.

‘Very good… all's as it should be,’ he said, languidly. ‘Has he had anything to eat?’

They told him, and asked him what sort of food should be given.

‘Oh, he can have anything he wants… Soup, tea… No mushrooms or cucumbers, of course – oh yes, and beef's not a good idea, either, and… but what's the point of my sitting here chattering away like this?…’ He exchanged glances with Razumikhin. ‘No medicine, and no nothing. And tomorrow I'll look in again… Perhaps even later on today… Yes, why not…’

‘Tomorrow evening I shall take him out for a walk!’ Razumikhin said, decisively. ‘We'll go to Yusupov Park, and then look in at the “Palais de Cristal”.’
¹

‘I wouldn't have him up and about tomorrow, although… a little… well, we'll see later on.’

‘Oh, what a pity, I'm giving a housewarming party this evening, it's just a couple of yards from here; I wish he could come too. He could lie in our midst on the sofa! You'll come, won't you?’ Razumikhin said suddenly, turning to Zosimov. ‘Don't forget, now – you've promised.’

‘I may look in a bit later on. What do you have planned?’

‘Oh, nothing – tea, vodka, herring. There's to be a pie: just some friends getting together.’

‘Who, exactly?’

‘Well, they're all from round about here and they're most of them new acquaintances, to tell you the truth – except perhaps for old Uncle, and he's new, too: he only arrived in St Petersburg yesterday, on some wretched business or other; I see him about once in every five years.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Oh, he's been vegetating all his life as a district postmaster… He draws a miserable little pension, sixty-five a year, it's hardly worth talking about… I'm actually rather fond of him. Porfiry Petrovich will be coming: he's the head of our local criminal investigation department… a trained lawyer. Oh, you know him…’

‘Is he some kind of relative of yours, too?’

‘Only of the most distant kind; but why are you frowning? You mean to say that just because the two of you once had a swearing match, you may not come?’

‘I don't give a spit about him…’

‘So much the better, then. Well, and then there'll be some students, a teacher, a certain government clerk, a certain musician, an officer, Zamyotov…’

‘I say, would you mind telling me what you or he’ – Zosimov nodded at Raskolnikov – ‘can possibly have in common with a fellow like that Zamyotov?’

‘Oh these fussy folk! Principles!… You operate on principles as though they were mechanical springs; you don't even dare to turn round of your own accord; in my view, the man's all right – that's the only principle I go on, and I won't hear another word against him. Zamyotov's a splendid chap.’

‘He's got an itchy palm.’

‘So what if he has – I don't give a spit! What of it, anyway?’ Razumikhin exclaimed suddenly, getting inordinately worked up. ‘Did I praise him to you for having an itchy palm? All I said was that he's all right in his own way! To be quite honest, if one goes into all the ins and outs of everyone, are there really going to be all that many good people left? I mean, I'm certain that no one would give so much as one baked onion for me, entrails and all, and even then only if you were thrown in as well!…’

‘That's not enough. I'd give two for you…’

‘Well, I'd only give one for you! Zamyotov's still a little boy, and I'll give his hair another pull, because he must be drawn along, not pushed away. If you push a man away you'll never set him on the right path, and the same is even truer of a boy. With a boy you have to be twice as careful. Oh, you progressive blockheads, you don't know a thing! You've no respect for others, and you've no respect for yourselves… But since you're asking – yes, we may very well have a certain matter in common.’