Part Two · III
He was not, however, completely unconscious the whole time he was ill: it was a feverish state, with delirium and half-consciousness. Afterward he remembered a good deal. At times it seemed to him that a lot of people were gathering around him and wanted to take him and carry him off somewhere, and were arguing and quarreling about him a great deal. Then suddenly he was alone in the room, everyone had gone away and was afraid of him, and only now and then opened the door a tiny crack to look at him, threatened him, plotted something among themselves, laughed and teased him. He often remembered Nastasya beside him; he made out one other person too, someone who seemed very familiar, but just who, he could not possibly guess, and he grieved over it, even wept. Sometimes it seemed to him that he had been lying there for a month already; at other times, that it was still the same day going on. But about that—about that he had completely forgotten; on the other hand, every minute he remembered that he had forgotten something that must not be forgotten—he tormented himself, agonized, trying to remember, moaned, fell into a rage or into a terrible, unbearable fear. Then he would struggle to get up, wanted to run, but someone always held him back by force, and he would sink again into weakness and unconsciousness. At last he came fully to his senses.
This happened in the morning, at ten o’clock. At that hour of the morning, on clear days, the sun always passed in a long strip across his right-hand wall and lit up the corner by the door. By his bed stood Nastasya and one other person, who was studying him with great curiosity and was completely unknown to him. He was a young fellow in a kaftan, with a little beard, and looked like an artel man. The landlady was peeping in through the half-open door. Raskolnikov raised himself up.
“Who’s this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing at the young fellow.
“Look at that, he’s come to!” she said
“He’s come to, sir,” echoed the artel man. Realizing that he had come to, the landlady, who had been peeping in at the door, at once pulled it shut and hid. She had always been shy and found conversations and explanations a burden; she was about forty, and she was stout and fat, black-browed and black-eyed, good-natured from fatness and laziness; and even very pretty to look at. Bashful beyond all necessity.
“You… who are you?” he went on questioning, now addressing the artel man himself. But at that moment the door was thrown wide open again, and, stooping a little because he was tall, Razumikhin came in.
“What a ship’s cabin,” he shouted as he came in, “I always bang my forehead; and they call this an apartment! So you’ve come to, brother? I just heard it from Pashenka.”
“He just came to,” said Nastasya.
“Just came to, sir,” the artel man chimed in again with a little smile.
“And who might you be yourself, sir, if I may ask?” said Razumikhin, suddenly turning to him. “I, as you may see, am Vrazumikhin; not Razumikhin, as everybody calls me, but Vrazumikhin,1 a student, a son of the gentry, and he is my friend. Well, sir, and who might you be?”
“I’m the artel man in our office, sir, from the merchant Shelopaev, sir, and I’m here on business, sir.”
“Kindly take this chair,” and Razumikhin himself sat down on another, on the other side of the little table. “That was a good move, brother, coming to,” he went on, turning to Raskolnikov. “This is the fourth day you’ve barely eaten or drunk. Honestly, we were giving you tea from a spoon. I brought Zosimov to see you twice. Remember Zosimov? He examined you carefully and said right away that it was all nothing—something went to your head, or something. Some nervous nonsense, bad rations, he says, they didn’t issue you enough beer and horseradish, that’s why you’re ill, but it’s nothing, it’ll pass, it’ll all be flour in the end. Fine fellow, Zosimov! He’s made a grand start at doctoring. Well, sir, I won’t keep you,” he turned again to the artel man. “Would you care to explain what you need? Note, Rodya, this is the second time somebody’s come from their office; only it wasn’t this one before, it was another, and we had it out with him. Who was it came here before you?”
“That would be, I take it, the day before yesterday, sir, exactly, sir. That was Alexei Semyonovich; he’s with our office too, sir.”
“He’s got a bit more sense than you, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, sir; he’s more of a solid sort, to be sure, sir.”
“Commendable; well, sir, go on.”
“Well, by way of Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, of whom, I take it, you’ve heard more than once, sir, at your mamma’s request, there’s a remittance for you through our office, sir,” the artel man began, addressing Raskolnikov directly. “In case you’re in your right understanding, sir, I’m to hand you thirty-five roubles, sir, inasmuch as Semyon Semyonovich has received notice of it from Afanasy Ivanovich, at your mamma’s request, in the same manner as before. Are you aware of it, sir?”
“Yes… I remember… Vakhrushin…” said Raskolnikov thoughtfully.
“You hear that: he knows the merchant Vakhrushin!” cried Razumikhin. “And you say he’s not in his right understanding? Though I notice now that you’re a sensible man too. Well, sir! It’s a pleasure to listen to intelligent talk.”
“That’s him, sir, Vakhrushin, Afanasy Ivanovich, and at the request of your mamma, who once before sent you money through him in the same manner, he didn’t refuse this time either, sir, and notified Semyon Semyonovich from where he is a few days ago to hand you thirty-five roubles, sir, in expectation of better, sir.”
“Now that ‘expectation of better’ was the best thing you said; and ‘your mamma’ wasn’t bad either. Well, so what do you think: is he in his right mind or not quite, eh?”
“It’s all one to me, sir. Only there ought to be a little receipt, sir.”
“He’ll scratch one out! What have you got, a book or something?”
“A book, sir, here, sir.”
“Give it here. Now, Rodya, up you get. I’ll hold you up; scribble him a Raskolnikov, take the pen, because, brother, money’s sweeter to us now than molasses.”
“Don’t,” said Raskolnikov, pushing the pen away.
“Don’t what?”
“I won’t sign.”
“Ugh, the devil, how can we do without a receipt?”
“Don’t need… the money…”
“Don’t need the money! Well, brother, that’s a lie, I’m a witness! Don’t worry, please, he’s only… off on his travels again. Though that happens to him when he’s awake too… You’re a man of good sense, and we’ll guide him—I mean we’ll simply guide his hand, and he’ll sign. Up you come now…”
“But I can come back another time, sir.”
“No, no; why should you trouble yourself? You’re a man of good sense… Come on, Rodya, don’t keep your visitor… you see, he’s waiting,” and he seriously got ready to guide Raskolnikov’s hand.
“Let go, I’ll do it myself…” said Raskolnikov, took the pen, and signed in the book. The artel man laid out the money and withdrew.
“Bravo! And now, brother, do you want to eat?”
“I do,” answered Raskolnikov.
“Is there soup?”
“Yesterday’s,” answered Nastasya, who had been standing right there all this time.
“With potatoes and rice groats?”
“With potatoes and groats.”
“I know it by heart. Bring the soup, and give us some tea too.”
“I’ll bring it.”
Raskolnikov looked at everything with deep astonishment and with a dull, senseless fear. He decided to keep silent and wait: what would happen next?
“It seems I’m not delirious,” he thought, “it seems this is really…”
Two minutes later Nastasya came back with the soup and announced that the tea would be coming right away. With the soup appeared two spoons, two bowls, and the whole setting: saltcellar, pepper shaker, mustard for the beef, and so on, which had not happened in such order for a long time. The tablecloth was clean.
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea, Nastasyushka, for Praskovya Pavlovna to dispatch a couple of little bottles of beer. We’ll drink them, ma’am.”
“Well, aren’t you the quick one!” muttered Nastasya, and went off to carry out the command.
Wildly and tensely Raskolnikov went on watching. Meanwhile Razumikhin moved over to sit beside him on the sofa, clumsily, like a bear, put his left arm around Raskolnikov’s head, even though he could have raised himself, and with his right hand brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth, first blowing on it several times so that he wouldn’t burn himself. But the soup was barely warm. Raskolnikov greedily swallowed one spoonful, then another, a third. But after giving him a few spoonfuls, Razumikhin suddenly stopped and announced that as to anything further he would have to consult Zosimov.
Nastasya came in carrying two bottles of beer.
“And do you want tea?”
“I do.”
“Roll out the tea quick too, Nastasya, because as for tea, I think we can manage without the faculty. But here’s the beer!” He moved back to his own chair, pulled the soup and the beef toward him, and began to eat with such appetite that you would have thought he had not eaten for three days.
“I dine here at your place like this every day now, brother Rodya,” he mumbled, as far as his mouth crammed full of beef allowed, “and it’s all Pashenka, your landlady, doing the honors, she treats me from the bottom of her heart. Naturally, I don’t insist, but I don’t protest either. And here’s Nastasya with the tea. Isn’t she nimble! Nastenka, want some beer?”
“Oh, get along with you, you scamp!”
“Some tea, then?”
“Tea, maybe.”
“Pour it. Wait, I’ll pour it for you myself; sit down at the table.”
He took charge at once, poured, then poured a second cup, abandoned his lunch, and moved back to the sofa. As before, he put his left arm around the sick man’s head, raised him, and began giving him tea from a teaspoon, again blowing on the spoon continually and with particular zeal, as though this very process of blowing were the chief and saving point of recovery. Raskolnikov kept silent and did not resist, even though he felt in himself quite enough strength to raise himself and sit up on the sofa without any outside help, and not only to use his hands well enough to hold a spoon or a cup, but even, perhaps, to walk. But by some strange, almost animal cunning, it suddenly occurred to him to hide his strength for the time being, to lie low, to pretend, if need be, that he still did not quite understand, and meanwhile to listen and find out what was going on here. However, he could not master his revulsion: after sipping about ten spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly freed his head, capriciously pushed the spoon away, and fell back on the pillow again. Under his head now there really were real pillows—down pillows with clean pillowcases; he noticed that too and took it into account.
“Pashenka must bring us some raspberry jam this very day, to make him a drink,” said Razumikhin, settling back in his seat and setting to work on the soup and the beer again.
“And where’s she going to get you raspberries?” asked Nastasya, holding a saucer on her five outspread fingers and straining the tea into herself “through sugar.”
“Raspberries, my friend, she’ll get at the shop. You see, Rodya, a whole story happened here while you were out of it. When you ran off from me in such a swindling way and didn’t tell me where you lived, I suddenly got so furious that I resolved to hunt you down and execute you. I set about it that same day. How I walked and walked, asked and asked! This place, where you live now, I’d forgotten; though in fact I never remembered it, because I never knew it. Well, and your old place—I only remembered it was at Five Corners, Kharlamov’s house. I searched and searched for this Kharlamov’s house—and it turned out later that it wasn’t Kharlamov’s house at all, but Buch’s—how you get mixed up in the sounds sometimes! Well, I got angry. I got angry and the next day I went, come what may, to the address bureau, and imagine: in two minutes they found you for me. You’re registered there.”
“Registered!”
“I should say so; but General Kobelev they couldn’t find there at all while I was there. Well, sir, it’s a long story. Only, as soon as I descended on this place, I got acquainted at once with all your affairs; all of them, brother, all of them, I know everything; she saw it, too: I got acquainted with Nikodim Fomich, and Ilya Petrovich was pointed out to me, and with the caretaker, and with Mr. Zametov, Alexander Grigoryevich, the head clerk in the local police office, and finally with Pashenka—that was the crowning touch; she knows, too…”
“Sweetened her up,” muttered Nastasya, grinning slyly.
“You should take your sugar in the cup, Nastasya Nikiforovna.”
“Oh, you dog!” Nastasya suddenly cried and burst out laughing. “But I’m Petrovna, not Nikiforovna,” she added suddenly when she had stopped laughing.
“We shall treasure it, ma’am. Well, so then, brother, not to say too much, I wanted at first to send an electric current all through the place, so as to root out all the prejudices in these parts at one stroke, but Pashenka won out. I never expected, brother, that she’d be so… avenante… eh? What do you think?”
Raskolnikov was silent, though he had not for a minute taken his uneasy eyes off him, and now he went on stubbornly staring at him.
“Very much so, even,” Razumikhin went on, not in the least put out by the silence and as if agreeing with an answer he had received, “very much in order, even, in every respect.”
“Listen to the creature!” Nastasya cried out again; this conversation was evidently giving her inexpressible bliss.
“The bad thing, brother, is that you didn’t know how to handle the business from the very start. That wasn’t the way to go about it with her. She’s, so to speak, a most unexpected character! Well, about her character later… But how, for instance, could you let it come to the point where she dared to stop sending you your dinner? Or, for instance, that promissory note? Have you gone out of your mind or what, signing promissory notes! Or, for instance, that intended marriage, when the daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was still alive… I know everything! But then, I see this is a delicate string and that I’m an ass; forgive me. But speaking of stupidity: what do you think, brother, Praskovya Pavlovna isn’t nearly as stupid as you might suppose at first sight, is she?”
“Yes…” Raskolnikov let out through his teeth, looking away but realizing that it was more to his advantage to keep the conversation going.
“Isn’t that so?” cried Razumikhin, evidently delighted that he had been answered. “But she isn’t clever either, eh? A completely, completely unexpected character! I’m somewhat at a loss, brother, I assure you… She must be a good forty. She says thirty-six, and she has every right to. However, I swear to you that I judge her more intellectually, purely by metaphysics; we’ve got such an emblem tangled up here, brother, it beats your algebra! I don’t understand a thing! Well, that’s all nonsense, but only she, seeing that you weren’t a student anymore, had lost your lessons and your clothes, and that after the young lady’s death there was no reason for her to keep you on a family footing anymore, suddenly took fright; and since you, for your part, had crawled into a corner and kept up nothing of the old ways, she took it into her head to drive you out of the apartment. She’d been nursing that intention a long time, but she was sorry to lose the note. Besides, you yourself kept assuring her that your mamma would pay…”
“I said that out of my own baseness… My mother is practically begging for alms herself… and I lied so they’d keep me in the apartment and… feed me,” said Raskolnikov, loudly and distinctly.
“Yes, that was sensible of you. Only the whole trick is that just then up pops Mr. Chebarov, court councillor and man of business. Without him Pashenka would never have thought of anything, she’s much too bashful; but a man of business isn’t bashful, and first of all, naturally, he put the question: is there any hope of realizing on the little note? Answer: there is, because there’s a mamma who, out of her pension of a hundred and twenty-five roubles, will bail out her Rodenka even if she has to go without food herself, and there’s a sister who would sell herself into bondage for her brother. That’s what he based it on… Why are you squirming? I’ve found out all your innermost secrets now, brother; it wasn’t for nothing you were confiding in Pashenka when you were still on a family footing, and I’m saying this now out of love… That’s just it: an honest and sensitive man confides, and the man of business listens and eats, and then eats you up. So she made over this little note to this Chebarov as if in payment, and he formally demanded payment, without the least embarrassment. When I found all this out I wanted to send a current through him too, just to clear my conscience, but by then Pashenka and I had arrived at harmony, and I ordered the whole business stopped, at the very source, so to speak, guaranteeing that you’d pay. I vouched for you, brother, do you hear? We called in Chebarov, stuck ten roubles in his teeth, got the paper back, and here I have the honor to present it to you—they take your word for it now—here, take it, and I’ve torn it properly.”
Razumikhin laid the promissory note on the table; Raskolnikov glanced at it and, without saying a word, turned away to the wall. Even Razumikhin winced.
“I see, brother,” he said a minute later, “that I’ve made a fool of myself again. I thought I’d amuse you and entertain you with my chatter, and it seems I’ve only stirred up your bile.”
“Was it you I didn’t recognize in my delirium?” asked Raskolnikov, after he too had been silent for a minute, without turning his head.
“Me, and you even went into a frenzy on that account, especially once when I brought Zametov along.”
“Zametov?… The head clerk?… What for?” Raskolnikov quickly turned around and fixed his eyes on Razumikhin.
“Why are you so… What’s got you alarmed? He wanted to make your acquaintance; he wanted to himself, because we’d talked a lot about you… Otherwise who would I have found out so much about you from? He’s a splendid fellow, brother, the most wonderful… in his own way, naturally. We’re friends now; we see each other almost every day. I’ve moved to this part of town, you know. You don’t know yet? I just moved. We’ve been to Laviza’s together twice. You remember Laviza, Laviza Ivanovna?”
“Did I rave about anything?”
“I should say so! You weren’t yourself, sir.”
“What did I rave about?”
“Listen to him! What did he rave about? Everybody knows what people rave about… Well, brother, now, so as not to waste time, to business.”
He got up from his chair and grabbed his cap.
“What did I rave about?”
“Won’t he give it a rest! You’re not afraid about some secret, are you? Don’t worry: nothing was said about the countess. But about some bulldog, and earrings, and some chains, and Krestovsky Island, and some caretaker, and Nikodim Fomich, and Ilya Petrovich, the assistant superintendent, there was a lot of talk. And besides that, you were pleased to take a great interest in your own sock, very great indeed! You kept whining: give it to me, and that’s all. Zametov himself hunted for your socks in every corner, and handed you that rubbish with his own little hands, washed in scent, with rings on. Only then did you calm down, and for a whole day and night you held that rubbish in your hands; we couldn’t pry it loose. It must still be lying somewhere under your blanket. And then you kept asking for the fringe off your trousers, and how tearfully! We tried to find out: what fringe was that? But we couldn’t make anything out… Well, sir, to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I’m taking ten of them, and in a couple of hours or so I’ll render an account of them. Meanwhile I’ll let Zosimov know too, though he ought to have been here long ago anyway, since it’s past eleven. And you, Nastenka, look in often while I’m gone, about a drink or anything else he might want… And I’ll tell Pashenka what’s needed myself, right now. Goodbye!”
“Calls her Pashenka! Oh, you sly mug!” Nastasya said after him; then she opened the door and started eavesdropping, but she couldn’t hold out and ran downstairs herself. She was very curious to know what he was talking about down there with the landlady; and in general it was clear that she was completely charmed by Razumikhin.
The moment the door had closed behind her, the sick man threw off his blanket and jumped out of bed like a madman. With burning, convulsive impatience he had been waiting for them to leave as soon as possible, so that the moment they were gone he could set to work. But to what, to what work?—now, as if on purpose, he seemed to have forgotten. “Lord! Tell me just one thing: do they know about everything or don’t they know yet? And what if they know already and are only pretending, teasing me while I’m lying here, and then suddenly they’ll come in and say that it’s all been known for a long time and that they were only… What should I do now? There, I’ve forgotten, as if on purpose; suddenly forgotten, and I remembered just now!…”
He stood in the middle of the room and looked around in tormenting perplexity; went to the door, opened it, listened; but that wasn’t it. Suddenly, as if remembering, he rushed to the corner where the hole in the wallpaper was, began examining everything, put his hand into the hole, felt around, but that wasn’t it either. He went to the stove, opened it, and began rummaging in the ashes: the bits of fringe from his trousers and the shreds of the torn-out pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them in that time, so nobody had looked! Then he remembered the sock Razumikhin had just been telling him about. True, there it was lying on the sofa, under the blanket, but it had become so rubbed and so dirty since then that of course Zametov could not have made anything out.
“Bah, Zametov!… the police office!… And why are they summoning me to the police office? Where’s the summons? Bah!… I’ve mixed it up: that was when they summoned me before! I was examining the sock then too, and now… now I’ve been ill. And why did Zametov come in? Why did Razumikhin bring him?…” he muttered helplessly, sitting down on the sofa again. “What is this? Is it all still delirium going on with me, or is it real? It seems to be real… Ah, I remember: run! Run quickly, without fail, without fail, run! Yes… but where? And where are my clothes? No boots! They’ve taken them away! Hidden them! I understand! Ah, here’s my coat—they overlooked it! And here’s the money on the table, thank God! And here’s the note… I’ll take the money and leave, and rent another apartment, they won’t track me down!… Yes, but the address bureau? They’ll find me! Razumikhin will find me. Better to run away altogether… far away… to America, and the hell with them! And take the note… it’ll come in handy there. What else should I take? They think I’m ill! They don’t even know that I can walk, heh-heh-heh!… I could tell by their eyes that they know everything! If only I can get down the stairs! And what if they have guards posted down there, policemen! What’s this, tea? Ah, and there’s some beer left, half a bottle, cold!”
He grabbed the bottle, which still had a whole glassful of beer left in it, and drank it off at one gulp with delight, as though putting out a fire in his chest. But not even a minute had passed before the beer went to his head, and a light and even pleasant chill ran down his back. He lay down and pulled the blanket over himself. His thoughts, sick and incoherent enough as it was, became more and more confused, and soon sleep, light and pleasant, took hold of him. With delight he found a place for his head on the pillow, wrapped himself more snugly in the soft quilted blanket that was on him now instead of the old torn greatcoat, sighed softly, and fell into a deep, sound, healing sleep.
He woke up hearing someone come into his room, opened his eyes, and saw Razumikhin, who had flung the door wide open and was standing on the threshold, uncertain whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov quickly raised himself on the sofa and looked at him, as if straining to remember something.
“Ah, you’re not asleep, well, here I am! Nastasya, bring the bundle up here!” Razumikhin shouted downstairs. “You’ll have your account in a minute…”
“What time is it?” asked Raskolnikov, looking around anxiously.
“Well, brother, you had yourself a grand sleep: it’s evening outside, must be about six. You slept six hours and then some…”
“Lord! What’s the matter with me!…”
“What of it? Good for you! Where are you hurrying to? A rendezvous, or what? All our time is our own now. I’ve been waiting for you for three hours already; I looked in a couple of times, you were asleep. I called on Zosimov twice: not at home, and that’s that! Never mind, he’ll come!… I was off on my own little affairs too. I moved today, you know, moved for good, with my uncle. I have an uncle now, you know… Well, the devil with it, to business!… Give me the bundle, Nastenka. We’ll just… And how are you feeling, brother?”
“I’m well; I’m not ill… Razumikhin, have you been here long?”
“I told you, I’ve been waiting three hours.”
“No, but before?”
“What before?”
“Since when have you been coming here?”
“Why, I told you all about it this morning; don’t you remember?”
Raskolnikov fell to thinking. What had happened that morning came back to him as if in a dream. He could not remember it by himself and looked questioningly at Razumikhin.
“Hm!” said Razumikhin. “Forgot! I had a feeling this morning that you still weren’t quite in your… Now the sleep has set you right… Honestly, you look much better. Good man! Well, to business! You’ll remember in a minute. Look over here, my dear man.”
He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him enormously.
“This, brother, believe it or not, has been especially close to my heart. Because we’ve got to make a man of you. Let’s begin: we’ll start from the top. Do you see this cap?” he began, taking out of the bundle a fairly nice but at the same time very ordinary and cheap cap. “Let me try it on you?”
“Later, afterward,” said Raskolnikov, waving him away peevishly.
“No, brother Rodya, don’t resist, later will be too late; and I won’t sleep all night, because I bought it without measurements, by guesswork. Just right!” he exclaimed triumphantly, having tried it on him. “Just the right size! Headgear, brother, is the very first thing in a costume, a recommendation of a sort. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is obliged to take off his lid every time he goes into some public place where everyone else is standing around in hats and caps. Everybody thinks it’s from servile feelings, but it’s simply that he’s ashamed of his bird’s nest: such a bashful man! Well, Nastenka, here are two pieces of headgear for you: this palmerston” (he fetched from the corner Raskolnikov’s battered round hat, which for some unknown reason he called a palmerston) “or this little jeweler’s gem? Make an estimate, Rodya, what do you think I paid? Nastasyushka?” he turned to her, seeing that Raskolnikov said nothing.
“Gave twenty kopecks, I bet,” answered Nastasya.
“Twenty kopecks, you silly!” he shouted, offended. “Nowadays twenty kopecks wouldn’t buy even you—eighty kopecks! And that only because it’s been worn. True, it comes with a condition: when you wear this one out, they give you another free next year, by God! Well, sir, now let us proceed to the United States of America, as we used to call them at school.2 I warn you—I’m proud of the trousers!” And he spread out before Raskolnikov a pair of gray trousers of light summer wool. “Not a hole, not a spot, and quite decent, though worn, and the waistcoat the same, all one color, as fashion demands. And as for being worn, to tell the truth, that’s even better: softer, smoother… You see, Rodya, to make a career in the world, it’s enough, in my opinion, always to observe the season; if you don’t demand asparagus in January, you’ll save a few roubles in your purse; the same goes for this purchase. It’s the summer season now, and I made a summer purchase, because by autumn the season will require warmer material anyway, so you’d have to throw these away… all the more since by then they’ll have managed to fall apart on their own, if not from increasing luxury, then from internal disorders. Well, make an estimate! How much, do you think? Two roubles twenty-five kopecks! And remember, again with the same condition: wear these out, and next year you take another pair free! That’s the only way they trade at Fedyaev’s shop: pay once, and it’s enough for a lifetime, because you won’t go back a second time yourself. Well, sir, now let us proceed to the boots—how about them? You can see they’re worn, but they’ll do you for a couple of months, because they’re foreign work and foreign leather: the secretary of the English embassy unloaded them at the flea market last week; he’d only worn them six days, but he needed the money badly. Price one rouble fifty kopecks. A lucky buy?”
“But maybe they won’t fit!” remarked Nastasya.
“Won’t fit! And what’s this?” And he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov’s old, stiffened, holey boot, all caked with dried mud. “I went with a spare, and they worked out the real size from this monster. The whole business was conducted with feeling. And as for the linen, I came to terms with the landlady. Here, first of all, are three shirts, linen, but with a fashionable front… Well, sir, so: eighty kopecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five the rest of the outfit, total three roubles five kopecks; one fifty the boots—because they’re really very good—total four roubles fifty-five kopecks, and five roubles for all the linen—we bargained for it wholesale—total exactly nine roubles fifty-five kopecks. Forty-five kopecks change, in copper five-kopeck pieces, here you are, sir, kindly accept it—and thus, Rodya, you are now restored in your whole costume, because in my opinion your coat not only can still serve but even has a look of special nobility about it: that’s what it means to order from Charmeur! As for socks and everything else, I leave that to you; we have twenty-five roubles left, and don’t worry about Pashenka and paying for the apartment; I told you: the most unlimited credit. And now, brother, let me change your linen, because, as like as not, the illness is sitting in that shirt and nowhere else now…”
“Leave it! I don’t want to!” Raskolnikov waved him off; he had been listening with revulsion to Razumikhin’s strainedly playful report on the purchase of the clothes…
“That, brother, is impossible; what did I wear out my boots for!” Razumikhin insisted. “Nastasyushka, don’t be bashful, give us a hand, like this!” And in spite of Raskolnikov’s resistance he changed his linen all the same. Raskolnikov fell back on the pillow and for about two minutes said not a word.
“They won’t let go of me for a long time!” he thought. “What money was all this bought with?” he asked at last, looking at the wall.
“Money? Well, I like that! Why, with your own. The artel man was here this morning, from Vakhrushin, your mamma sent it; or have you forgotten that too?”
“Now I remember…” said Raskolnikov after a long and gloomy reverie. Razumikhin, frowning, glanced at him uneasily.
The door opened, and in came a tall, heavyset man who also seemed somewhat familiar to Raskolnikov by sight.
“Zosimov! At last!” cried Razumikhin, delighted.