Part Three · II

Preoccupied and serious, Razumikhin woke up the next day after seven. Many new and unforeseen perplexities had suddenly turned up for him that morning. He had never imagined before that he would wake up like this someday. He remembered everything about yesterday down to the last details and understood that something out of the ordinary had happened to him, that he had taken into himself an impression hitherto entirely unknown to him and unlike any before. At the same time he was clearly aware that the dream that had caught fire in his head was in the highest degree unrealizable—so unrealizable that he even felt ashamed of it, and he hurried on to the other, more pressing cares and perplexities left to him as a legacy of “that thrice-damned yesterday.”

His most horrible memory was of how “low and vile” he had turned out to be yesterday, not only because he had been drunk, but because he had abused the girl’s fiancé in front of her, taking advantage of her position, out of stupidly hasty jealousy, not knowing their mutual relations and obligations, and not even knowing the man properly. And what right did he have to judge him so hastily and rashly? And who had asked him to be the judge! And could a being like Avdotya Romanovna give herself to an unworthy man for money? So there must be merits in him too. The rooms? But how, in fact, could he have known that the rooms were that sort? After all, he was getting an apartment ready… phew, how low all this was! And what kind of excuse was it that he had been drunk? A stupid excuse that degraded him still more! In wine there is truth, and the truth had come out, all of it, “that is, all the filth of his envious, coarse heart had come out”! And was such a dream permissible in the slightest to him, Razumikhin? Who was he compared with such a girl—he, a drunken brawler and yesterday’s braggart? “Is such a cynical and ridiculous juxtaposition even possible?” Razumikhin blushed desperately at this thought, and suddenly, as if on purpose, at that very same moment, he clearly remembered telling them yesterday, standing on the stairs, that the landlady would be jealous of him over Avdotya Romanovna… that was really unbearable. He struck the kitchen stove with his fist as hard as he could, hurt his hand, and knocked out a brick.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself a minute later, with a sort of feeling of self-abasement, “of course, all these vile things can never be painted over or smoothed away now… and so there’s no use even thinking about it, and therefore I’ll turn up in silence, and… do my duty… in silence too, and… and not ask forgiveness, and not say anything, and… and of course everything is lost now!”

And yet, as he dressed, he examined his clothes more carefully than usual. He had no other clothes, and if he had had any he might not have put them on—“just so, I wouldn’t put them on, on purpose.” But in any case he could not remain a cynic and a filthy slob: he had no right to offend the feelings of others, all the more since those others needed him themselves and had asked him to come. He brushed his clothes carefully. His linen was always passable; on that score he was particularly clean.

He washed zealously that morning—Nastasya had some soap—washed his hair, his neck, and especially his hands. But when it came to the question of whether or not to shave his stubble (Praskovya Pavlovna had excellent razors, kept from the late Mr. Zarnitsyn), the question was decided in the negative, even fiercely: “Let it stay as it is! What if they think I shaved for… but they’re sure to think so! Not for anything in the world!

“And… and the main thing is, he’s so coarse, so dirty, his manners are from a tavern; and… and, granted, he knows that he too is, well, at least a little, a decent man after all… well, so what is there to be proud of in being a decent man? Everyone ought to be a decent man, and cleaner than that, and… and all the same (he remembers this) there were some little affairs of his too… not exactly dishonorable, but still!… And the thoughts he’s had! hm… and to set all that next to Avdotya Romanovna! Well, yes, the devil! So be it! Well, then I’ll be dirty, greasy, tavern-mannered on purpose, and to hell with it! I’ll be even more so!…”

Zosimov, who had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna’s parlor, found him in the midst of such monologues.

He was going home and, as he was leaving, hurried to look in on the patient. Razumikhin reported to him that he was sleeping like a marmot. Zosimov gave orders not to wake him till he woke up on his own. He himself promised to drop by sometime after ten.

“If only he’s at home,” he added. “Phew, the devil! You have no authority over your own patient, and then go and treat him! Do you know whether he’ll go to them, or they’ll come here?”

“They will, I think,” answered Razumikhin, understanding the purpose of the question, “and of course they’ll talk about their family affairs. I’ll leave. You, as the doctor, naturally have more right than I do.”

“I’m not their confessor either; I’ll come and go; I have plenty to do without them.”

“One thing worries me,” Razumikhin interrupted, frowning. “Yesterday, drunk, on the way, I blabbed to him about all sorts of foolishness… all sorts… among other things, that you were afraid he might… be inclined to insanity…”

“You blabbed the same thing to the ladies yesterday too.”

“I know it was stupid! Beat me if you like! But tell me, did you really have some firm idea?”

“Nonsense, I tell you; what firm idea! You yourself described him as a monomaniac when you brought me to him… Well, and yesterday we added fuel to the fire, you did, that is, with those stories… about the painter; a fine conversation, when maybe that’s exactly what he’s gone out of his mind over! If I’d known exactly what happened at the police office then, and that some scoundrel there had… insulted him with that suspicion! Hm… I wouldn’t have allowed such a conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs make an ocean out of a drop, they see fantasies acted out in the flesh, wide awake… As far as I remember, yesterday, from that story of Zametov’s, half the business became clear to me. And what of it! I know of a case where a hypochondriac, a man of forty, unable to bear the daily jeers of an eight-year-old boy at the dinner table, cut the boy’s throat! And here: all in rags, an insolent police officer, an illness just starting, and a suspicion like that! For a frenzied hypochondriac! With a furious, exceptional vanity! Why, the whole starting point of the illness may lie right there! Well, yes, the devil!… And by the way, that Zametov really is a nice boy, only hm… he shouldn’t have told all that yesterday. A terrible chatterbox!”

“But whom did he tell? You and me?”

“And Porfiry.”

“So what if he told Porfiry?”

“By the way, do you have any influence over those two, the mother and sister? He should be handled more carefully today…”

“They’ll come to terms!” Razumikhin answered reluctantly.

“And why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money, she doesn’t seem to find him repulsive… and they haven’t a bean, have they? eh?”

“What are you prying for?” Razumikhin shouted irritably. “How should I know whether they have a bean or not? Ask yourself, maybe you’ll find out…”

“Phew, how stupid you are sometimes! Yesterday’s drink is still in you… Goodbye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna for the night’s lodging for me. She locked herself in, didn’t answer my bonjour through the door, but she was up at seven herself, they carried the samovar to her from the kitchen through the corridor… I was not deemed worthy of beholding her…”

At nine o’clock exactly Razumikhin turned up at Bakaleyev’s rooms. Both ladies had been waiting for him for ages with hysterical impatience. They had been up since about seven or even earlier. He came in gloomy as night and bowed awkwardly, which at once made him angry—with himself, of course. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna simply rushed at him, seized him by both hands, and all but kissed them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna; but even in that haughty face there was at that moment such an expression of gratitude and friendship, such complete respect, which he had not expected (instead of mocking looks and an involuntary, badly hidden contempt!), that it really would have been easier for him if they had met him with abuse; as it was, it was too embarrassing. Fortunately there was a ready topic of conversation, and he quickly seized hold of it.

Hearing that he “had not woken up yet” but that “everything was splendid,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that this was all for the best, “because she very, very, very much needed to have a talk beforehand.” There followed a question about tea and an invitation to drink it together; they had not had any yet themselves, waiting for Razumikhin. Avdotya Romanovna rang, a dirty ragamuffin answered the call, and tea was ordered from him, which was finally served, but so dirtily and so indecently that the ladies were ashamed. Razumikhin began vigorously cursing the rooms, but, remembering Luzhin, fell silent, grew embarrassed, and was terribly glad when Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s questions at last came pouring out one after another without a break.

Answering them, he talked for three quarters of an hour, constantly interrupted and questioned again, and managed to convey all the most important and necessary facts he knew about the last year of Rodion Romanovich’s life, concluding with a detailed account of his illness. He left out a great deal, however, that needed to be left out, among other things the scene at the police office with all its consequences. They listened to his story greedily; but when he thought he had already finished and satisfied his listeners, it turned out that for them he had, as it were, not even begun.

“Tell me, tell me, what do you think… oh, forgive me, I still don’t even know your name?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurried on.

“Dmitry Prokofyich.”

“Well then, Dmitry Prokofyich, I would very, very much like to know… how in general… he looks at things now, that is, understand me, how shall I put it to you, that is, better to say: what does he like and what doesn’t he like? Is he always so irritable? What does he wish for and, so to speak, dream of, if I may ask? What exactly has a particular influence on him now? In a word, I would like…”

“Oh, Mama, how can anyone answer all that just like that!” remarked Dunya.

“Oh, my God, but I didn’t, didn’t, didn’t at all expect to find him like this, Dmitry Prokofyich.”

“That’s very natural, ma’am,” answered Dmitry Prokofyich. “I have no mother, well, but my uncle comes here every year and almost every time doesn’t recognize me, even by my looks, and he’s an intelligent man; well, and in the three years you’ve been apart a lot of water has flowed by. And what can I tell you? I’ve known Rodion for a year and a half: sullen, gloomy, haughty, and proud; lately (and maybe long before) mistrustful and a hypochondriac. Generous and kind. Doesn’t like to express his feelings and would sooner do something cruel than speak out his heart in words. Sometimes, though, he’s no hypochondriac at all, but simply cold and unfeeling to the point of inhumanity, really, as if two opposite characters took turns in him. Terribly uncommunicative sometimes! He never has time, everybody’s always in his way, and he himself lies there doing nothing. Not sarcastic, and not because he lacks wit, but as if he hasn’t got time for such trifles. Doesn’t hear people out. Never takes an interest in what everyone else is interested in at the moment. Thinks terribly highly of himself, and not, it seems, without some right to. Well, what else?… I think your coming will have the most saving influence on him.”

“Oh, God grant it!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, tormented by Razumikhin’s account of her Rodya.

And Razumikhin at last glanced a little more boldly at Avdotya Romanovna. He had often glanced at her during the conversation, but fleetingly, only for an instant, and had at once looked away. Avdotya Romanovna would now sit down at the table and listen attentively, now get up again and begin walking, as was her habit, from corner to corner, her arms folded, her lips pressed together, now and then putting a question of her own without stopping her walk, lost in thought. She too had the habit of not hearing people out. She was wearing a sort of darkish dress of some light material, and a white, transparent little scarf was tied around her neck. From many signs Razumikhin noticed at once that the circumstances of both women were extremely poor. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he would not, it seemed, have been afraid of her at all; but now, perhaps precisely because she was so poorly dressed and because he had noticed all this miserly poverty, fear entered his heart, and he began to be afraid for his every word, for every gesture, which was of course constraining for a man who did not trust himself to begin with.

“You’ve said a great deal that’s interesting about my brother’s character and… said it impartially. That’s good; I thought you worshipped him,” remarked Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. “It also seems to be true that there ought to be a woman near him,” she added thoughtfully.

“I didn’t say that, but then, perhaps you’re right about that too, only…”

“What?”

“Why, he doesn’t love anyone; and maybe never will,” Razumikhin snapped.

“You mean he’s incapable of love?”

“And you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you yourself are terribly like your brother, even in everything!” he blurted out suddenly, unexpectedly even to himself, but at once, remembering what he had just been telling her about her brother, he turned as red as a lobster and was terribly embarrassed. Avdotya Romanovna could not help laughing as she looked at him.

“You may both be mistaken about Rodya,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in, somewhat piqued. “I’m not talking about the present, Dunechka. What Pyotr Petrovich writes in this letter… and what you and I supposed—maybe it isn’t true, but you can’t imagine, Dmitry Prokofyich, how fantastic he is and, how shall I put it, capricious. I could never trust his character, even when he was only fifteen. I’m sure that even now he may suddenly do something to himself that no one would ever think of doing… We needn’t look far: do you know how, a year and a half ago, he astonished me, shook me, and nearly killed me altogether, when he took it into his head to marry that, what was her name—the daughter of that Zarnitsyna, his landlady?”

“Do you know anything in detail about that affair?” asked Avdotya Romanovna.

“Do you think,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on hotly, “that he would have been stopped then by my tears, my pleas, my illness, my death from grief, perhaps, our poverty? He would have stepped over every obstacle as calm as you please. And can it be, can it really be that he doesn’t love us?”

“He has never told me anything about that affair himself,” Razumikhin answered cautiously, “but I heard a thing or two from Mrs. Zarnitsyna herself, who in her own way isn’t one for telling stories either, and what I heard is, perhaps, even a little strange…”

“What, what did you hear?” both women asked at once.

“Nothing so very special, though. I only learned that this marriage, which was all settled and failed to take place only because of the bride’s death, was very much against Mrs. Zarnitsyna’s own liking… Besides, they say the bride wasn’t even pretty, that is, they say she was even plain… and so sickly, and… and strange… but, it seems, with some merits. There must certainly have been some merits; otherwise you can’t understand anything… No dowry either, but he wouldn’t have counted on a dowry anyway… Generally, it’s hard to judge in such a matter.”

“I’m sure she was a worthy girl,” Avdotya Romanovna remarked briefly.

“God forgive me, but I did rejoice at her death then, though I don’t know which of them would have ruined the other: he her, or she him?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded; then cautiously, with hesitations and with incessant glances at Dunya, which Dunya evidently disliked, she began again to ask about yesterday’s scene between Rodya and Luzhin. This incident, it was plain, worried her more than anything, to the point of fear and trembling. Razumikhin told it all over again, in detail, but this time added his own conclusion: he directly accused Raskolnikov of deliberately insulting Pyotr Petrovich, this time excusing him very little on account of his illness.

“He had thought it up even before his illness,” he added.

“I think so too,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna with a crushed look. But she was very struck that this time Razumikhin had spoken of Pyotr Petrovich so cautiously and even, it seemed, with respect. Avdotya Romanovna was struck by it too.

“So that’s your opinion of Pyotr Petrovich?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna could not resist asking.

“Of your daughter’s future husband I can have no other opinion,” Razumikhin answered firmly and warmly, “and I don’t say it out of mere vulgar politeness, but because… because… well, if only because Avdotya Romanovna herself, of her own free will, has deigned to choose this man. And if I abused him so yesterday, it was because yesterday I was filthy drunk and also… mad; yes, mad, out of my head, out of my mind, completely… and today I’m ashamed of it!…” He blushed and fell silent. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not break the silence. She had not uttered a single word from the very moment they began talking about Luzhin.

Meanwhile Pulcheria Alexandrovna, without her support, was visibly undecided. At last, faltering and constantly glancing at her daughter, she announced that one circumstance was worrying her exceedingly now.

“You see, Dmitry Prokofyich…” she began. “May I be completely frank with Dmitry Prokofyich, Dunechka?”

“Of course, Mama,” Avdotya Romanovna remarked impressively.

“Here’s the thing,” she hurried on, as if a mountain had been lifted off her by the permission to share her trouble. “Today, very early, we received a note from Pyotr Petrovich in answer to our message yesterday about our arrival. You see, yesterday he was supposed to meet us, as he had promised, at the station itself. Instead, some footman was sent to the station to meet us, with the address of these rooms and to show us the way, and Pyotr Petrovich sent word that he would come to see us here himself this morning. Instead, this morning this note came from him… Best of all, read it yourself; there’s a point in it that worries me very much… you’ll see in a moment what point it is, and… tell me your frank opinion, Dmitry Prokofyich! You know Rodya’s character better than anyone and can advise us better than anyone. I warn you that Dunechka has already decided everything, from the first step, but I, I still don’t know what to do, and… and I’ve been waiting for you all this time.”

Razumikhin unfolded the note, dated the day before, and read the following:

“Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honor to inform you that owing to sudden delays that occurred I was unable to meet you at the platform, having sent for that purpose a man, a very efficient one. Likewise I shall deprive myself of the honor of meeting with you tomorrow morning as well, owing to urgent business in the Senate and so as not to hinder the family meeting of yourself with your son and of Avdotya Romanovna with her brother. I shall, however, have the honor of calling upon you and paying my respects to you at your lodgings no otherwise than tomorrow, at precisely eight o’clock in the evening, whereupon I venture to append my urgent and, I will add to that, insistent request that at our general meeting Rodion Romanovich not be present, inasmuch as he insulted me in an unexampled and discourteous manner during my visit to him in his illness yesterday and, besides that, having personally a necessary and detailed explanation to make to you on a certain point, regarding which I desire to learn your own interpretation. I have the honor herewith to forewarn you that if, contrary to my request, I encounter Rodion Romanovich, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately, and then you will have only yourself to blame. I write, however, on the supposition that Rodion Romanovich, who appeared so ill at the time of my visit, two hours later suddenly recovered, and consequently, going out of doors, may also come to you. I am confirmed in this by my own eyes, in the lodgings of a certain drunkard run over by horses and having died thereof, to whose daughter, a young person of notorious behavior, he gave yesterday as much as twenty-five roubles under the pretext of the funeral, which greatly astonished me, knowing with what trouble you collected that sum. Whereupon, testifying my particular esteem for the respected Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the sentiments of respectful devotion

“of your humble servant

“P. Luzhin.”

“What am I to do now, Dmitry Prokofyich?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, almost in tears. “How can I suggest to Rodya that he not come? He demanded so insistently yesterday that we refuse Pyotr Petrovich, and now we’re told not to receive Rodya himself! Why, he’ll come on purpose once he finds out, and… what will happen then?”

“Do as Avdotya Romanovna has decided,” Razumikhin answered calmly and at once.

“Oh, my God! She says… she says God knows what, and doesn’t explain her aim to me! She says it will be better, that is, not exactly better, but that for some reason it’s supposedly absolutely necessary that Rodya too should come at eight o’clock today on purpose and that they should absolutely meet… And I didn’t even want to show him the letter, and to arrange somehow, by some cunning, through you, that he shouldn’t come… because he’s so irritable… And I don’t understand anything, what drunkard died there, and what daughter, and how he could give that daughter all the last of the money… which…”

“Which cost you so dearly, Mama,” added Avdotya Romanovna.

“He wasn’t himself yesterday,” Razumikhin said thoughtfully. “If you knew what he went on about in the tavern yesterday, clever as it was… hm! He really did tell me something yesterday, as we were walking home, about some dead man and some girl, but I didn’t understand a word… But then, I myself yesterday…”

“Best of all, Mama, let’s go to him ourselves, and there, I assure you, we’ll see at once what to do. Besides, it’s time—good Lord! It’s past ten!” she cried, glancing at her magnificent gold enameled watch, which hung around her neck on a thin Venetian chain and was terribly out of harmony with the rest of her attire. “The fiancé’s present,” thought Razumikhin.

“Oh, it’s time!… Time, Dunechka, time!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to bustle anxiously. “He’ll think we’re still angry about yesterday, taking so long to come. Oh, my God!”

As she said this, she was fussily throwing on her mantle and putting on her hat; Dunechka got dressed too. Her gloves were not only worn out but even torn, which Razumikhin noticed, and yet this obvious poverty of dress even gave both ladies an air of a kind of special dignity, as always happens with those who know how to wear poor clothes. Razumikhin looked at Dunechka with reverence and was proud that he would be escorting her. “That queen,” he thought to himself, “who mended her stockings in prison, surely looked at that moment like a real queen, and even more so than at the most splendid ceremonies and receptions.”

“My God!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “Did I ever think I would be afraid of meeting my son, my dear, dear Rodya, the way I’m afraid now!… I’m afraid, Dmitry Prokofyich!” she added, glancing at him timidly.

“Don’t be afraid, Mama,” said Dunya, kissing her. “Better have faith in him. I do.”

“Oh, my God! I have faith too, but I didn’t sleep all night!” cried the poor woman.

They went out into the street.

“You know, Dunechka, as soon as I dozed off a little toward morning, I suddenly dreamed of the late Marfa Petrovna… all in white… she came up to me, took me by the hand, and shook her head at me, so sternly, so sternly, as if she were condemning me… Is that a good sign? Oh, my God, Dmitry Prokofyich, you don’t know yet: Marfa Petrovna has died!”

“No, I don’t know; what Marfa Petrovna?”

“Suddenly! And imagine…”

“Later, Mama,” Dunya intervened. “Why, he doesn’t even know who Marfa Petrovna is.”

“Oh, you don’t know? And I thought you knew everything already. Forgive me, Dmitry Prokofyich, these days my mind is simply going round in circles. Really, I regard you as our providence, as it were, and so I was quite convinced you already knew everything. I regard you as one of the family… Don’t be angry that I talk like this. Oh, my God, what’s wrong with your right hand! Did you hurt it?”

“Yes, I hurt it,” muttered Razumikhin, in bliss.

“I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dunya corrects me… But, my God, what a closet he lives in! Is he awake, though? And that woman, his landlady, calls this a room? Listen, you say he doesn’t like to show his heart, so maybe I’ll weary him with my… weaknesses?… Won’t you teach me, Dmitry Prokofyich? How should I be with him? I, you know, go about completely lost.”

“Don’t question him too much about anything if you see him frowning; especially don’t ask too much about his health; he doesn’t like it.”

“Oh, Dmitry Prokofyich, how hard it is to be a mother! But here are those stairs… What horrible stairs!”

“Mama, you’ve even gone pale, calm down, my dearest,” said Dunya, caressing her. “He ought to be happy to see you, and you torment yourself so,” she added, her eyes flashing.

“Wait, I’ll look in first, to see if he’s awake.”

The ladies quietly followed Razumikhin, who went up the stairs ahead of them, and when they had already drawn level with the landlady’s door on the fourth floor, they noticed that the landlady’s door was open a tiny crack and that two quick black eyes were examining them both from the darkness. But when their eyes met, the door suddenly slammed shut, and with such a bang that Pulcheria Alexandrovna nearly cried out in fright.