Crime and Punishment (42 page)

your obedient servant,

P. Luzhin

‘What am I to do now, Dmitry Prokofich?’ said Pulkheria Aleksandrovna, almost in tears. ‘I mean, how can I tell Rodya not to come? He was so adamant yesterday about demanding that we say no to Pyotr Petrovich, and now we're being told not to let Rodya in, either! And I mean, he'll be sure to come when he finds out, and… what will happen then?’

‘You should do whatever Avdotya Romanovna wants to do,’ Razumikhin answered calmly and without hesitation.

‘Oh, good heavens! She says… Heaven knows the things she's been saying, and she doesn't tell me what the point of it all is, either! She says it's best – that's to say, not best, but for some reason absolutely essential that Rodya should also make a special effort to come here at eight o'clock this evening, and that it's essential for the two of them to meet each other… And there I was unwilling even to show him the letter – I'd planned to make some cunning arrangement through you, to stop him coming… because he's so irritable… And in any case I've absolutely no idea who this drunkard is who has died, or who the daughter is, or how he could have given away all of that last lot of money… which…’

‘Which cost you such a lot to get hold of, mother,’ Avdotya Romanovna added.

‘He wasn't himself yesterday,’ Razumikhin said, meditatively. ‘If you knew what he got up to in a restaurant yesterday, even if it was clever… hm! Yes, it's true, he did tell me about some woman or other as we were walking home, but I couldn't make head nor tail of it… In any case, last night I too…’

‘Mother, the best thing would be for us to go and see him
ourselves; I'm certain that once we're there we'll realize at once what to do. And anyway, it's time… Oh good heavens! It's after ten!’ she exclaimed, glancing at the magnificent gold-enamelled watch that hung around her neck on a slender little Venetian chain and clashed terribly with the rest of her attire. ‘A gift from the bridegroom,’ Razumikhin thought.

‘Oh, it's time we were gone! Come along, Dunechka, come along!’ Pulkheria Aleksandrovna began to fuss. ‘He'll think our taking so long to arrive means we're still angry with him about yesterday. Oh good heavens!’

So saying, she agitatedly threw her cape around her and put her hat on; Dunechka also got ready. The gloves she was wearing were not only threadbare, but actually torn in several places, something that Razumikhin noticed, and yet this manifest poverty of costume actually lent both ladies a kind of peculiar dignity, which is always the case with people who know how to wear poor clothes. Razumikhin looked at Dunechka with veneration and felt proud that he was to escort her. ‘It is of course certain,’ he thought to himself, ‘that the queen who mended her stockings in prison looked like a real queen as she did it, and even more so than at the time of her most lavish triumphs and entrances.’
¹

‘Oh my goodness!’ Pulkheria Aleksandrovna exclaimed, ‘I never imagined I would be as afraid of meeting my own son, my own dear, dear Rodya, as I am now!… I'm frightened, Dmitry Prokofich!’ she added, giving him a timid glance.

‘Don't be, mother,’ Dunya said, kissing her. ‘You ought to trust him. I do.’

‘Oh, my goodness! I
do
trust him, but I wasn't able to sleep all night!’ the poor woman exclaimed.

They emerged on to the street.

‘You know, Dunechka, when towards morning I finally fell asleep, I suddenly had a dream about poor dead Marfa Petrovna… and she was all in white… she came up to me, took me by the hand, and shook her head at me, so sternly, so sternly, as though she were condemning me… Do you think that's a bad sign? Oh, good heavens, didn't you know, Dmitry Prokofich: Marfa Petrovna is dead!’

‘No, I didn't; which Marfa Petrovna is that?’

‘It was so sudden! And just imagine…’

‘Later, mother,’ Dunya interposed. ‘I mean, he doesn't even know who Marfa Petrovna is yet.’

‘Oh, don't you? And I thought you knew everything. You must forgive me, Dmitry Prokofich – my mind can't keep up with my reason these days. To be sure, I look upon you as our Providence, and so was quite convinced that you knew everything. I look upon you as one of my own kin… Please don't be angry with me for talking like this. Oh, good heavens, what happened to your hand? The right one. Did you hurt it?’

‘Yes, I did,’ muttered the gratified Razumikhin.

‘Sometimes I talk too much from the heart – Dunya tells me off for it… But, good heavens, what a little cupboard that is he's living in! Do you suppose he'll have woken up yet, by the way? Does this woman, this landlady of his, really call that a room? Listen – you say he doesn't like to show his feelings, so perhaps I'll get on his nerves with my… weaknesses? Please be my guide, Dmitry Prokofich! How should I behave with him? I'm going around every bit like a lost soul, you know.’

‘Don't ask him too many questions, especially if you see him frowning; in particular, you mustn't ask him about his health: he doesn't like it.’

‘Oh, Dmitry Prokofich, how hard it is to be a mother! But here's that staircase… What a dreadful staircase!’

‘Why, mother, you're terribly pale, calm down, my little dove,’ said Dunya, fondling her. ‘He ought to be happy to see you, and here are you, tormenting yourself,’ she added, with a flash of her eyes.

‘Wait, I'll go on up and see if he's awake yet.’

The ladies slowly made their way up the stairs behind Razumikhin, who had set off ahead of them, and as on the fourth floor they drew level with the door of the landlady's apartment, they noticed that it was open a tiny slit, and that two quick black eyes were examining them both out of the darkness. When they met the gaze of these eyes, however, the door suddenly banged shut with such a loud noise that Pulkheria Aleksandrovna almost cried out in fright.

‘He's recovered, he's recovered!’ Zosimov cried merrily as he greeted the newcomers. He had arrived some ten minutes before and was sitting in the corner of the room he had occupied the previous day, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the corner opposite with all his clothes on, having washed himself thoroughly and combed his hair, things he had not done for a long time. The room filled up at once, but even so Nastasya succeeded in following the visitors in, and began to listen.

It was true: Raskolnikov had almost recovered, particularly by comparison with the day before, though he was still very pale, distracted and morose. Outwardly he looked like a man who has been wounded or is in severe pain: his eyebrows were drawn together, his lips pressed tight, his gaze inflamed. He spoke little and reluctantly, as though he were having to make an effort or were discharging some obligation, and every so often a vague unease appeared in his movements.

With a sling or a taffeta bandage he would have entirely resembled a man with a bruised arm or a very painful finger abscess, or something of that sort.

None the less, even this pale and morose countenance brightened up for a moment, as if with a ray of light, when mother and sister made their entrance but this merely lent the sufferer's expression an additional element of concentrated agony, replacing his previous melancholy absent-mindedness. The light soon faded, but the look of agony remained, and Zosimov, who was observing and studying his patient with all the youthful fervour of a doctor only just at the beginning of his career, noted with surprise that instead of displaying joy at the arrival of his nearest and dearest, Raskolnikov seemed to show a grim, concealed determination to endure another hour or two of torture which could not now be avoided. He subsequently observed how almost every word of the conversation that now began seemed to touch some wound in his patient and irritate it; but at the same time he found himself wondering somewhat at the way in which yesterday's monomaniac, whom the slightest word had
plunged into a state bordering upon frenzy, was today able to master himself and conceal his emotions.

‘Yes, now even I realize that I've almost recovered,’ said Raskolnikov, kissing his mother and sister affectionately, which at once made Pulkheria Aleksandrovna beam with joy, ‘and I'm not saying that
the way I did yesterday
,’ he added, turning to Razumikhin and squeezing his arm in friendly fashion.

‘I'm really amazed at him today,’ Zosimov began, thoroughly relieved at the newcomers’ arrival, as in the course of ten minutes he had already succeeded in losing the thread of his conversation with the patient. ‘If he goes on like this, in another three or four days he'll be quite his old self again, just the way he was a month, or two… or, possibly three… ago. I mean, all this began and was on the cards a long time ago, wasn't it… eh? Will you admit now that you yourself were probably to blame?’ he added with a cautious smile, as though he were still afraid of saying something that might irritate him.

‘It's very likely,’ Raskolnikov answered coldly.

‘I say this,’ Zosimov went on, acquiring a taste for his new role, ‘because by and large your complete recovery now depends solely on yourself. Now that it's possible to talk to you, I would like to impress on you how essential it is that the original, as it were, root causes which gave rise to your morbid condition be eliminated; if they are, you'll be cured. If not, it will come back, only worse. You're an intelligent man, and I'm sure you've been keeping an eye on yourself. I think the beginning of your disorder coincided to some extent with your leaving the university. It's essential that you not be left at a loose end, and that's why I believe that hard work and a firmly fixed goal would be of great assistance to you.’

‘Yes, yes, you're quite right… Look, I'll be returning to university soon, and then everything will go… like clockwork…’

Zosimov, who had begun delivering this sensible advice partly in order to make an impression on the ladies, was naturally somewhat perplexed when, upon concluding his remarks, he glanced at his hearer and observed on the latter's face an expression of undisguised mockery. This only lasted an instant,
however. Pulkheria Aleksandrovna at once began to thank Zosimov, in particular for having made his visit to their hotel the night before.

‘What, he was with you at night as well, was he?’ Raskolnikov asked, seemingly in alarm. ‘I suppose that means you didn't get any sleep after your journey?’

‘Oh, Rodya, it was only until two o'clock. Even at home Dunya and I never go to bed before two.’

‘I don't know how to thank him, either,’ Raskolnikov went on, suddenly frowning, and lowering his gaze. ‘Even disregarding the money side of it – excuse me for mentioning that,’ he said, turning to Zosimov, ‘I really don't know why I've deserved such special attention from you! I just don't understand… and… because of that, I actually find it rather hard to accept: I tell you that in all openness.’

‘Now don't get annoyed,’ Zosimov laughed, forcedly. ‘Just suppose you're my best patient. Well, you know, some of us who are only just beginning to practise medicine love our best patients as if they were our own children, and indeed there are some fellows who practically fall in love with them. And I mean, I don't exactly have very many patients.’

‘To say nothing of him,’ Raskolnikov added, pointing at Razumikhin. ‘Even though he's had nothing from me but trouble and insults.’

‘God, what rot he's talking! In a sentimental mood today, are we?’ Razumikhin exclaimed.

If he had looked a little more searchingly he would have seen that here no sentimental mood but something quite the opposite was involved. Avdotya Romanovna had, however, noticed this. She was keeping a fixed and uneasy gaze trained on her brother.

‘And as for you, mother, I don't even dare to say what I think,’ he went on, as though he were repeating some lesson he had learned by rote that morning, ‘Only today have I begun to have any inkling of what torments you must have been through here last night as you waited for me to arrive.’ Having said this, he suddenly, without a word, held out his hand to his sister, smiling. This time, however, the smile contained a genuine, unfeigned emotion. Dunya at once caught and pressed the hand
extended towards her, relieved and grateful. It was the first time he had said anything to her since their disagreement of the previous day. His mother's face lit up with delight and happiness at the sight of this conclusive and wordless reconciliation of brother with sister.

‘There – that's what I love him for!’ whispered the forever exaggerating Razumikhin, energetically turning round in his seat. ‘He has these – gestures…’

‘And how well he does it all,’ thought the mother to herself. ‘What noble impulses he has and how simply and with what tact he put an end to that misunderstanding with his sister yesterday – just by stretching out his hand at the right moment and giving her the right kind of look… What beautiful eyes he has, and how handsome his face is!… But, good heavens, look at that suit he's wearing – how dreadfully badly he's dressed! Afanasy Ivanovich's shop-boy Vasya has better clothes!… Oh, I could just rush up to him and throw my arms round him, and… cry – but I'm afraid, afraid… Lord, what's got into him?… I mean, even when he talks kindly I'm afraid! But what am I afraid of?…’

‘Oh, Rodya,’ she said suddenly, entering into the conversation, in a hurry to respond to the remark he had just made, ‘you could never imagine how… unhappy Dunechka and I were yesterday! Now that it's over and we're all happy again it won't matter if I tell you. Imagine, we came running here in order to embrace you, straight off the train, practically, and this woman – yes, there she is! Hallo, Nastasya!… suddenly told us that you had delirium tremens and had just given the doctor the slip and gone gibbering out into the street, and that people had set off to look for you. Can you imagine what we felt? I immediately thought of the tragic death of Lieutenant Potanchikov, whom we knew – he was a friend of your father's – you wouldn't remember him, Rodya – and who also ran off like that with delirium tremens and fell down a well in the yard outside, it wasn't until the next day that they were able to pull him out. And we, of course, thought it was even worse than that. We were going to rush away and look for Pyotr Petrovich, in order to enlist his help… because I mean we were alone, completely
alone,’ she wailed in a piteous voice, and then suddenly stopped short, remembering that it was still rather risky to mention Pyotr Petrovich, even though they were ‘all completely happy again’…