And as for being second-hand, well, honestly, that's even better: softer, more comfortable… You see, Rodya, to get ahead in life, I believe, all you need is to keep an eye on the seasons; if you don't demand asparagus in January, you'll save yourself a few rupees; the same applies to this purchase. It's summer now, so I've made a summer purchase; by autumn, the season will naturally call for warmer material anyway, so you'll have to discard them… particularly since by then they'll have worn out on their own, if not from increased luxury, then from internal weaknesses. Now then, take a look! How much would you say? Two rupees twenty-five paise! And remember, again with the same condition: once you've worn these out, you get another pair free next year! That's how Fedyayev's shop works: pay once, and you're set for life, since you won't want to go back there yourself ever again.
– A two-anna piece, you fool! – he shouted, offended, – these days even you can't be bought for two annas, eight rupees! And that's only because it's second-hand. True, they do promise: once you've worn this one out, they'll give you another one free next year, upon my word! Now then, let's proceed to the United States of America, as we used to call it at school. I must warn you—I'm proud of these trousers! – and he spread out before Raskolnikov a pair of grey trousers made of light summer wool – not a single hole or stain, and yet quite respectable, though worn; the waistcoat is the same, plain-coloured, as fashion demands.
– Must have given a two-anna coin, – replied Nastasya.
– No, brother Rodya, don’t resist—it’ll be too late then; and anyway, I wouldn’t sleep a wink all night, since I bought it blind, without measurements. Just right! – he declared triumphantly, trying it on – fits like a glove! Headgear, brother, is the very first thing in an outfit—sort of like a calling card. My friend Tolstikov has to take off his hat every time he enters a public place where everyone else stands around in hats and caps. People think it’s out of humility, but really, he’s just ashamed of his bird’s nest—such a modest man! Now then, Nastenka, here are two headpieces: this Palmerston (he pulled from the corner Raskolnikov’s battered round hat, which for some reason he called a Palmerston) or this fine piece of jewellery? Tell me, Rodya, how much do you think I paid? Nastasyushka? – he turned to her, seeing that he remained silent.
– Hmm! – he said – Forgot! Earlier, I kept thinking you weren't quite yourself. Now, after a good sleep, you're feeling better... Honestly, you do look much improved. That's the spirit! Well then, let's get to it. You'll remember now. Just look here, my dear fellow. He began untying the knot, which apparently interested him greatly. – This, brother, believe me, has been weighing heavily on my mind. After all, we must make a proper man out of you. Now, let's begin – from the top. See this cap here? – he said, pulling from the bundle a rather neat but quite ordinary and cheap cap. – Just let me try it on you? – Later, later – muttered Raskolnikov, brushing him off grumpily.
– I'm fine! I'm not ill... Razumikhin, how long have you been here? – I told you, I've been waiting for three hours. – No, but before that? – What do you mean, before? – Since when have you been coming here? – Why, didn't I just tell you earlier? Don't you remember? Raskolnikov fell into thought. Everything earlier seemed to him like a dream. He couldn't recollect on his own and looked at Razumikhin questioningly.
He woke up hearing someone enter, opened his eyes and saw Razumikhin standing in the doorway, the door flung wide open, hesitating whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov quickly sat up on the sofa, staring at him as if trying hard to remember something. — Ah, awake, are you? Good! Here I am! Nastya, bring the bundle up here! — shouted Razumikhin downstairs. — You'll get an update right away... — What time is it? — asked Raskolnikov anxiously, looking around. — You've had a proper sleep, brother! Evening now, about six o'clock. You've slept over six hours... — Good Lord! What have I done! — What's wrong with that? Good for your health! Where's the rush? Got a date or something? We've got all the time now. I've been waiting for you nearly three hours—came by twice, but you were fast asleep. Went to see Zosimov twice too—wasn't in yet, but he'll turn up!... I also stepped out for a bit on personal errands. I shifted house today—fully moved, with my uncle. I've got an uncle now, you see. But never mind that—let's get down to business!... Bring the bundle here, Nastenka. Now we'll see... So, how are you feeling, brother?
He grabbed the bottle, which still had a full glass of beer left, and drank it down in one go, savouring it as though quenching a fire burning in his chest. But hardly a minute passed before the beer hit his head, and a slight, even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the blanket over himself. His thoughts, already troubled and disjointed, grew more and more confused, and soon a light, soothing sleep overcame him. With pleasure, he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped himself more snugly in the soft cotton quilt that now covered him instead of his old torn overcoat, gave a quiet sigh, and fell into a deep, sound, healing sleep.
"Ah, Zametov!... The office!... Why are they calling me to the office? Where's the summons? Ah!... I've mixed things up: that was back then when they summoned me! Back then I was examining a sock too, but now... now I've been ill. But why did Zametov come by? Why did Razumikhin bring him here?..." he muttered weakly, sinking back onto the sofa. "What is going on? Is this delirium still gripping me, or is it real? Seems like it's real... Ah, I remember: run! Run quickly, I must run, absolutely must run! But... where to? Where's my clothes? No boots! They've taken them! Hidden them! I understand! Ah, here's the coat—missed it! And there's money on the table, thank God! And the bill of exchange too... I'll take the money and leave, rent another room, they won't find me!... But then, the registry office? They'll track me down! Razumikhin will find me. Better to flee altogether... far away... to America, and let them rot! And take the bill of exchange—it'll come in handy there. What else should I take? They think I'm sick! They don't know I can walk, heh-heh-heh!... I could tell from their eyes they know everything! If only I could make it down the stairs! But what if they've posted guards there, police officers! What's this—tea? Ah, here's some beer left, half a bottle, cold!"
He stood in the middle of the room, looking around in helpless bewilderment. He walked to the door, opened it, and listened; but no, that wasn't it. Suddenly, as if remembering something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole in the wallpaper, began examining everything closely, thrust his hand into the hole, and felt around—still nothing. Then he went to the stove, opened it, and started searching through the ashes: fragments of trouser fringe and torn pieces of a pocket still lay scattered just as he had left them—so no one had come looking! Then he recalled the sock that Razumikhin had just mentioned. True enough, there it was, lying on the sofa under the blanket—but so worn and soiled by now that Zametov surely could not have made anything out of it.
– Calls me Pashenka! You sly-faced one! – Nastasya muttered after him, then opened the door and started eavesdropping. But she couldn't bear it and rushed downstairs herself. She was terribly curious to find out what he was talking to the landlady about—and besides, it was clear she was completely charmed by Razumikhin. As soon as the door closed behind her, the sick man threw off the blanket and jumped out of bed like a madman. He had been waiting with burning, agonizing impatience for them to leave so he could immediately get down to business—on his own. But what business? It was as if, just now and on purpose, he had forgotten. "Lord! Just tell me one thing: do they know everything already, or not yet? What if they already know, but are only pretending, teasing me while I'm lying here—and then suddenly walk in and say it's all been known for ages, and they were just acting... What should I do now? And I've forgotten it on purpose—suddenly forgotten! Just now I remembered!"
Well then, down to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I'll take ten, and in about two hours I'll give you an account. Meanwhile, I'll let Zosimov know—he should've been here long ago anyway, it's already noon. And you, Nastenka, keep visiting in my absence, check whether he needs some drink or anything else... I'll myself tell Pashenka what's needed right away. Goodbye!
– Oh, he'll manage just fine! Surely you're not worried about some secret? Don't fret: nothing was said about the countess. But there was plenty of talk about some bulldog, earrings, chains, Krestovsky Island, a janitor, Nikodim Fomich, and Ilya Petrovich, the assistant superintendent. And besides that, they took quite an interest in your own sock—very much indeed! Kept complaining: "Hand it over," that's all they'd say. Zametov himself searched every corner for your socks and, with his own clean hands—perfumed and with rings on—personally handed you that rag. Only then did you calm down, and held onto that rag for a full day and night—you couldn't even pull it away. It's probably still lying somewhere under your blanket. Then you asked for fringe for your trousers—so tearfully! We tried to find out: what fringe exactly? But nothing could be understood...
– I got quite worked up about it, even to the point of frenzy, especially when once I brought Zametov along. – Zametov? The clerk? Why? – Raskolnikov quickly turned and stared intently at Razumikhin. – What's wrong with you... Why so agitated? He wanted to meet you—wanted it himself, because we'd talked so much about you. Otherwise, how would I have learned so much about you? He's a good fellow, really remarkable, in his own way, of course. Now we're friends—see each other almost daily. I've moved to that area now. You didn't know? Just moved in. Went with him to Laviza's a couple of times. Remember Laviza, Laviza Ivanovna? – Did I talk deliriously? – Of course! You weren't yourself at all. – What did I talk about in my delirium? – Oh, come on! What does one usually babble about in a fever? You know well enough... But brother, now let's not waste time—let's get to work. He stood up from the chair and grabbed his cap. – What did I talk about in my delirium?
Razumikhin placed the promissory note on the table; Raskolnikov glanced at it, said nothing, and turned away towards the wall. Even Razumikhin felt awkward. —I see, brother, — he said after a minute — I’ve made a fool of myself again. Thought I’d cheer you up, have a bit of a chat, but seems I’ve only poured gall into your heart. —Was it you I didn’t recognise during my delirium? — asked Raskolnikov, after keeping silent for about a minute, without turning his head.
– Yes, you were sensible enough. But the whole point is that here came along Mr. Chebarov, a privy councillor and a man of business. Poor Pashenka couldn't have thought of anything without him—she's too shy by nature. But a business-minded man isn't shy; naturally, his first question was: is there any hope of realising this little promissory note? The answer: yes, there is—such a mother exists who would go without food herself, even on her twenty-five-rouble pension, just to help her dear Rodya, and such a sister who'd sell herself into bondage for her brother. That's exactly what he relied upon... Why are you fidgeting? Brother, I now know every last detail about you—you weren't cautious when you opened up to Pashenka while still on good terms as relatives, and now I'm speaking out of kindness. That's precisely it: an honest, sensitive man speaks openly, while the man of business listens, eats it all up, and then devours him too. So she ended up transferring that promissory note to this Chebarov, supposedly to settle a debt, and he formally demanded payment—didn't even flinch. I nearly gave him a piece of my mind when I found out everything—just to clear my conscience—but at that time, I was in perfect harmony with Pashenka, so I ordered the entire matter dropped right at the source, guaranteeing that you would pay. Brother, I stood surety for you, do you hear? They called Chebarov, shoved ten gold pieces into his face, took back the document, and now I have the honour of presenting it to you—people now trust your word—here, take it, and see, I've torn it properly myself.
"It was out of sheer meanness that I spoke... My mother herself hardly begs for alms... yet I lied so they would keep me in the room and... feed me," said Raskolnikov loudly and distinctly.
– Isn't it the truth? – exclaimed Razumikhin, clearly delighted that he had received a response. – But she isn't clever, right? Her behaviour is completely, utterly unexpected! Brother, I must admit, I'm somewhat baffled... She's certainly pushing forty. She claims thirty-six, and well, she's entitled to say so. But I swear to you, I judge her more from an intellectual, almost metaphysical standpoint; brother, here we've got such a symbolic entanglement going on that your algebra can't solve it—I understand nothing! But never mind all that nonsense; the point is, seeing that you're no longer a student, have lost your tutoring and clothes allowance, and that after the young lady's death there's no reason to keep you around as family, she suddenly got frightened. And since you, on your side, kept withdrawing into yourself and didn't maintain previous ties, she decided to throw you out of the apartment. She's been planning this for a while, but hesitated because of the promissory notes. Besides, you yourself kept assuring her that your mother would pay...
“Yes…” mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but aware that it would be better to keep the conversation going.
– Very much so, – continued Razumikhin, not at all disconcerted by the silence, as though agreeing with the answer he had received. – Very much in order, in every respect. – Just look at the creature! – cried Nastasya again, clearly deriving indescribable delight from the conversation. – The bad thing, brother, is that right from the start you didn't handle the matter properly. You should never have approached her that way. She's, so to speak, of the most unexpected character! Well, we'll talk about character later... But tell me, for instance, how could she possibly stop sending you your meals? Or take that promissory note—have you lost your mind, signing such things? Or what about that proposed marriage, when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was still alive... I know all about it! But anyway, I see this is a delicate point, and I've been an ass; forgive me. But speaking of foolishness—what do you think? Praskovya Pavlovna isn't nearly as stupid, brother, as she might first appear, is she?
– We shall value it, sir. Well then, brother, to cut a long story short, I initially wanted to introduce electricity everywhere, so thoroughly that all the prejudices in this region would be eradicated at once; but Pashenka prevailed. Brother, I never expected she'd be so... charming... eh? What do you think? Raskolnikov remained silent, though he hadn't taken his anxious eyes off him for a moment, and now kept staring at him persistently.
– Recorded! – Of course! But they simply couldn't find General Kobyelov while I was there. Well, never mind, too long a story. But the moment I arrived here, I got to know all about your affairs—every single one, my friend, every last detail. She knows it too—I met Nikodim Fomich, saw Ilya Petrovich, got to know the watchman, then Mr. Zametov, Alexander Grigoryevich, the clerk at the local office, and finally even Pashenka—that was the crowning touch. She knows all about it... – Smooth talker, you are – mumbled Nastasya, grinning slyly. – Oh, no offence meant, Nastasya Nikiforovna. – You rogue! – suddenly shouted Nastasya, bursting into laughter. – And anyway, I'm Petrova, not Nikiforova – she added abruptly, once she'd stopped laughing.
– She’ll pick up the raspberries from the shop, my friend. You see, Rodya, a whole drama unfolded here in your absence. When you ran off from me so sneakily, without even leaving your address, I suddenly got so angry that I decided to track you down and give you a proper scolding. Started the very same day. I walked and walked, asked and asked! I’d forgotten about this present place, anyway I never really remembered it, since I never knew it properly. But the old place—I only recalled it was near Pyat Uglov, the house belonging to Kharlamov. I searched and searched for that Kharlamov house—turned out later it wasn’t Kharlamov at all, but Bukha! How the sounds sometimes get mixed up! Well, I got furious. Got angry and just went, come what may, to the address office the next day—and imagine: they found you in two minutes flat. You’re registered there.
– We must have Pashenka send us some raspberry jam today itself, to make him a drink, – said Razumikhin, settling back into his seat and resuming his soup and beer. – But where will she get raspberries for you? – asked Nastasya, holding a saucer on her five outstretched fingers and sipping tea through a lump of sugar.
Still, he couldn’t suppress his disgust entirely: after drinking about ten spoonfuls, he abruptly pulled his head away, pushed the spoon aside petulantly, and fell back onto the pillow. Indeed, he now lay on real pillows—down pillows with clean pillowcases. He noticed this too, and took it into account.
He immediately poured tea, then poured another cup, abandoned his breakfast, and moved back to the sofa. Once again, he supported the sick man’s head with his left arm, lifted him, and began to feed him tea from a teaspoon, blowing on the spoon continuously and with particular care—as though the very act of blowing were the most crucial, healing element of recovery. Raskolnikov remained silent and offered no resistance, although he clearly felt strong enough to sit up on the sofa without assistance, not only capable of using his hands well enough to hold a spoon or cup, but perhaps even to walk. Yet, on a sudden, strange impulse—something almost animal-like in its cunning—he decided to conceal his strength for now, to lie low, feign incomprehension if necessary, and instead listen carefully and find out what exactly was going on.
Nastasya entered, carrying two bottles of beer. – Would you like some tea? – Yes, please. – Run and get some tea quickly, Nastasya. Seems like we can manage tea without the faculty's approval. But here’s some beer! – He shifted back to his chair, pulled the soup and beef closer, and began eating with such appetite as if he hadn’t eaten for three days. – I’ve started having lunch here every day now, brother Rodya, – he mumbled, his mouth full of beef, – all thanks to dear Pashenka, your landlady, who treats me so warmly, from the heart. I don’t insist, of course, but I certainly don’t object either. And here’s Nastasya with tea. Look at her, so quick! Nastenka, would you like some beer? – Oh, you rascal! – A cup of tea, then? – Tea would be nice. – Then pour yourself some. Wait, I’ll pour it for you; take a seat at the table.
Raskolnikov kept staring wildly and tensely. Meanwhile, Razumikhin shifted over to the sofa beside him, awkwardly bear-like, and with his left arm cradled Raskolnikov's head—though Raskolnikov could have sat up on his own—and with his right hand brought a spoon of soup to his mouth, carefully blowing on it several times to cool it down so he wouldn't burn himself. The soup was only mildly warm, though. Raskolnikov greedily swallowed one spoonful, then another, then a third. But after feeding him a few more spoonfuls, Razumikhin suddenly paused and declared that any further feeding would have to be discussed with Zosimov.
Raskolnikov looked around with deep astonishment and a dull, senseless fear. He decided to stay silent and wait—what would happen next? "I must not be delirious," he thought. "This seems to be really happening..."
Two minutes later, Nastasya returned with the soup and announced that tea would be ready shortly. Along with the soup came two spoons, two plates, and all the proper utensils—salt cellar, pepper shaker, mustard for beef, and other items that hadn’t been laid out so neatly in a long time. The tablecloth was clean. "Nastasyushka, just see that Praskovya Pavlovna sends over a couple of bottles of beer. We’ll have a drink, sir."
"Oh, you sharp-toed fellow!" muttered Nastasya, and went off to carry out the order.
– Leave it, I’ll do it myself… – he said, took the pen, and signed the book. The contractor paid out the money and left. – Bravo! Now, brother, fancy something to eat? – Yes, I do, – replied Raskolnikov. – Got any soup? – Yesterday’s, – answered Nastasya, who had been standing there all along. – With potatoes and rice? – With potatoes and rice. – Knew it by heart. Bring the soup, and serve some tea too. – I will.
– It's all right by me, sir. Only, about the receipt, we really should—
– He'll scribble it! What, is it some kind of register? – A register, sir, yes, sir. – Give it here. Come on, Rodya, sit up. I'll hold you; just sign it—write 'Raskolnikov,' take the pen. We need the money now, brother, more than we need molasses. – No, I don't want to, – said Raskolnikov, pushing the pen away. – What do you mean, no? – I won't sign. – Damn it, how can we manage without a receipt? – Don't need... the money... – Says he doesn't need the money! Look here, brother, you're lying—I'm a witness! Don't worry, please, he's just like this—having another spell. Though sometimes, even when awake, he gets this way... You're a sensible man; we'll guide him, I mean, just move his hand for him, and he'll sign. Go ahead... – Well then, I can come again later, sir. – No, no, why trouble yourself? You're such a reasonable man... Come on, Rodya, don't keep the gentleman waiting... see, he's waiting. – And seriously, he prepared to guide Raskolnikov's hand.
– It's them indeed, sir, Vakhruшин, Afanasy Ivanovich. And at the request of your mother – who previously sent you money in exactly the same way through them – they've obliged once again, sir. They informed Semyon Semyonovich just the other day from their end to hand you thirty-five roubles, sir, pending better times, sir. – Ah, "pending better times" – that's where you truly outdid yourself! And not bad at all the bit about "your dear mother" either. Well then, what's your opinion: is he in full possession of his senses or not?
– It must be the third year now, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovich; he's also attached to our office, sir. – Don't you think he'll be a bit more sensible than you? – Yes, sir; they are certainly rather more substantial, sir. – Good. Well then, please continue. – Now, through Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin—whom, I believe, you've heard mentioned more than once—on request from your late mother, a remittance has been sent to you via our office, sir, the foreman began, addressing Raskolnikov directly. – Provided you are aware of this, sir, thirty-five roubles are to be handed over to you, as Semyon Semyonovich received notification from Afanasy Ivanovich, as per your mother's request, in the usual manner. Do you know of this, sir? – Yes... I remember... Vakhrushin... Raskolnikov murmured thoughtfully. – There, you hear that? He knows the merchant Vakhrushin! cried Razumikhin. – How could he not be aware? And, by the way, I now see you're a sensible man yourself. Well then! It's a pleasure to hear intelligent talk.
Take note, Rodya, this is the second time someone's come from their office; though last time it wasn't you, but another man. We spoke with him. Who was it before you who came here?
– Please, sit on this chair – said Razumikhin, seating himself on another one on the opposite side of the table. – You did well, brother, to come to your senses – he continued, addressing Raskolnikov. – For four days now you've hardly eaten or drunk anything. We were actually feeding you tea with a spoon. Twice I brought Zosimov to see you. Do you remember Zosimov? He examined you carefully and said right away it was all nonsense – some sort of mental strain. Nervous nonsense, he called it; poor diet, he said, not enough beer and horseradish, so no wonder you fell ill – but nothing serious, it'll pass and grind itself out. Zosimov's a good man! He's started treatment well. Now then, I won't keep you, – he turned again to the contractor – perhaps you'd like to explain your business?
— And who might you be, if I may ask? — Razumikhin suddenly turned to him and asked. — You see, my name is Vrazumikhin; not Razumikhin, as everyone calls me, but Vrazumikhin, a student, son of a nobleman, and this is my friend. Now then, who might you be? — I'm the head worker at our shop, from merchant Shelopeev's establishment, and I'm here on business.
– You… who are you? – he continued questioning, turning to the foreman himself. But just then the door burst open, and, stooping slightly because he was tall, Razumikhin came in. – What a bloody cabin! – he cried, entering. – Always bang my forehead! And this is called a flat! So, brother, you've come to? Just heard from Pashenka. – Just came to, – said Nastasya. – Just now came to, – echoed the foreman again with a little smile.
This happened in the morning, at ten o'clock. On clear mornings at this hour, the sun always stretched in a long strip across his right wall, lighting up the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing by Raskolnikov's bed, along with another person—a young fellow in a long coat with a small beard, who bore the look of a workman and was eyeing him with great curiosity, though they had never met before. The landlady peeped in from the half-open door. Raskolnikov raised himself slightly. "Who's this, Nastasya?" he asked, pointing at the man. "Well, look at that—he's come to!" she said. "You've come to, sir," replied the workman. As soon as it became clear he was awake, the landlady, who had been watching from the doorway, quickly shut the door and disappeared. She was always shy and found conversations and explanations a great burden. About forty years old, heavy and plump, with thick dark brows and dark eyes, she was good-natured thanks to her plumpness and laziness—and quite good-looking too. Yet she was excessively, almost unnecessarily, bashful.
About *it* he had completely forgotten; yet every moment he remembered that he had forgotten something crucial—something he must not forget. This gnawed at him, tormented him; he'd struggle to recall, groan, fall into fits of rage or overwhelming, unbearable fear. Then he'd leap up, desperate to escape, but someone would always restrain him by force, and he'd sink once more into weakness and oblivion. Finally, he regained full consciousness.
He wasn't entirely unconscious throughout the entire illness—rather, he was in a feverish state, delirious and half-aware. He remembered many things later. At times, it seemed to him that a crowd had gathered around him, trying to seize him and carry him away somewhere, arguing and quarrelling fiercely over him. Then suddenly he'd be alone in the room, everyone having fled in fear, only peeping through the door now and then to glance at him, shaking their heads, whispering among themselves, laughing and taunting him. He often remembered Nastasya by his side, and could make out another person, someone very familiar indeed, yet try as he might, he couldn't figure out who it was—this troubled him deeply, even brought him to tears. Sometimes he felt he had been lying there for over a month; at other times, that it was still the very same day.
– Nobody came. It’s your own blood crying out. When there’s no outlet for it, when it starts burning up in your liver, that’s when things begin to appear… Are you going to eat something or not? He didn’t answer. Nastasya stood over him, staring intently, not leaving. – Give me some water, Nastasyushka. She went downstairs and returned after about two minutes with water in a white earthenware mug; but he no longer remembered what happened next. He only recalled taking one sip of the cold water and spilling some of it from the mug onto his chest. Then followed unconsciousness. III
“This is blood,” she answered at last, quietly, as if speaking to herself. “Blood?! What blood?” he mumbled, turning pale and edging towards the wall. Nastasya continued to stare at him silently. “No one beat the landlady,” she said again, in a firm and resolute voice. He stared at her, hardly breathing. “I heard it myself… I wasn’t asleep… I was sitting up,” he whispered even more faintly. “I listened for a long while… The assistant overseer came… People ran out onto the staircase from all the rooms…”
Raskolnikov fell helplessly onto the sofa, but could no longer close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in torment, gripped by an unbearable sense of infinite horror such as he had never known before. Suddenly, bright light flooded his room—Nastasya entered with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him closely and seeing he was awake, she set the candle on the table and began laying out what she had brought: bread, salt, the plate, and a spoon. ‘Haven’t eaten since yesterday, I bet. Wandering all day, and now fever’s got hold of you.’
‘Nastasya… why did they beat the landlady?’
She stared at him intently. ‘Who beat the landlady?’
‘Just now… half an hour ago—Illya Petrovich, the assistant warden, on the stairs… Why did he beat her like that? And… why did he come here?’
Nastasya studied him in silence, frowning. She kept staring at him, for a long while. He felt deeply uncomfortable under her gaze—almost afraid. ‘Nastasya… why are you silent?’ he finally whispered weakly.
Then at last, after nearly ten minutes of uproar, the noise began to die down. The landlady groaned and moaned; Ilya Petrovich kept threatening and cursing. But now, finally, even he seemed to quiet down—now he couldn’t be heard at all. Had he really left? "Thank God!" Yes, the landlady was leaving too, still sobbing and crying. Her door slammed shut. The crowd began dispersing from the stairwell into their rooms—exclaiming, arguing, calling to one another, voices rising to shouts and dropping to whispers. There must have been many—almost the entire house had gathered. "But good God, could this really happen? And why, why did he come here?"
Suddenly, Raskolnikov trembled like a leaf: he recognized that voice. It was Ilya Petrovich! Ilya Petrovich here, beating the landlady! Kicking her, banging her head against the steps—that was clear from the sounds, the shrieks, the thuds! Could it be? Had the world gone mad? He could hear crowds gathering on every floor, along the staircase—voices, exclamations, people rushing up, doors banging, footsteps hurrying. "But why? Why? How can this be?" he repeated, seriously thinking he must have lost his mind. But no—he heard it all too clearly! Then surely they’d come for him next, if things had come to this... "Because... it must be connected... because of yesterday... Lord help me!" He wanted to bolt the door, but his hand wouldn’t move—besides, it would be useless! Fear, cold as ice, gripped his soul, tortured him, numbed him.
He woke up in near darkness to a terrible scream. Good God, what a scream! Never before had he heard or seen such unnatural sounds—such howling, shrieking, wailing, weeping, blows and curses. He could never have imagined such brutality, such madness. In horror, he sat up on his bed, shivering and tormented every moment. But the fight, the screams and curses grew louder and louder. Then, to his utter astonishment, he suddenly recognized the voice of his landlady. She was wailing, shrieking, moaning, speaking in a rush, words tumbling out so fast they were impossible to understand—begging, clearly begging, to stop being beaten, for someone was mercilessly beating her on the stairs. The voice of the man beating her was so terrible with rage and fury that it was now just a choking rasp, yet even he was shouting something—also fast, incoherently, hurriedly, gasping for breath.
He returned to his room by evening, so he must have been walking for about six hours. Where and how he had come back, he remembered nothing. Undressing, trembling like a spent horse, he lay down on the sofa, pulled his overcoat over him, and at once lapsed into…
It seemed to him that at that very moment, he had cut himself off from everyone and everything, as with a pair of scissors.
It struck him as wild and strange that he had stopped at the exact same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could now think about the same things as before, and feel interest in the same old subjects and images that had once engaged him—so very recently. It almost made him want to laugh, yet at the same time, his chest tightened with pain. Somewhere deep below, far down, barely visible beneath his feet, his entire former past now appeared to him—his old thoughts, former problems, old themes, past impressions, the whole panorama, himself, and everything, everything… It seemed as if he were soaring upwards, and all was vanishing before his eyes. With an involuntary gesture, he suddenly felt the ten-kopeck coin tightly clenched in his fist. He opened his hand, stared intently at the coin, swung his arm, and flung it into the water; then he turned and walked home.
When he used to go to university, often—most frequently while returning home—he must have stopped at this very spot perhaps a hundred times, staring intently at this truly magnificent panorama and each time almost wondering at a vague, unsolvable impression it left in him. A strange chill always emanated from this splendid view; to him, the grand scene seemed filled with a silent, deafening emptiness… He would marvel each time at his own gloomy, mysterious feeling and would put off solving it, distrusting his own judgment, for some future time. Now, suddenly, he sharply recalled those earlier questions and bewilderments, and it seemed to him no mere coincidence that he remembered them now.
He clutched the ten-kopeck coin tightly in his hand, walked about ten paces, and turned towards the Neva, facing the palace. The sky was cloudless, and the water was almost blue—a rare sight on the Neva. The dome of the cathedral, which appears most splendid when viewed from this spot on the bridge, about twenty paces short of the chapel, gleamed brightly, and through the clear air, every single ornament could be seen distinctly. The pain from the lash had subsided, and Raskolnikov had forgotten about the blow; now, only one restless and not entirely clear thought occupied his mind. He stood there, gazing into the distance long and intently. This place was especially familiar to him.
– And serve her right! – What a wretch! – Of course, when a drunkard sees things and deliberately throws himself under the wheels—then you're made to answer for it. – People earn their living that way, respected sir, they earn their living... But just as he stood by the railing, still senselessly and bitterly staring after the departing carriage while rubbing his back, suddenly he felt someone pressing money into his hand. He looked: an elderly merchant woman, wearing a cap and goatskin shoes, and with her a young girl in a hat carrying a green umbrella—likely her daughter. "Take it, dear father, for Christ's sake." He took it, and they passed by. It was a twenty-kopeck coin. Judging by their clothes and appearance, they could well have taken him for a beggar, a real street beggar collecting pennies, and the whole twenty kopecks was surely due to the lash of the whip that had moved them to pity.
But Raskolnikov was already stepping out into the street. On the Nikolayevsky Bridge, he was forced to come fully to his senses due to a particularly unpleasant incident. The driver of a carriage lashed him sharply across the back with a whip because he had nearly stumbled in front of the horses, although the driver had shouted at him three or four times. The whip-stroke angered him so intensely that, jumping back towards the railing (it was unclear why he had been walking right in the middle of the bridge, where carriages pass and not pedestrians), he ground his teeth in fury and snapped them together. Of course, people around burst into laughter.
Raskolnikov silently picked up the German sheets of the article, took the three rubles, and left without a word. Razumikhin looked after him in surprise. But when Raskolnikov had already reached the first line of the street, he suddenly turned back, climbed up to Razumikhin again, placed both the German sheets and the three rubles on the table, and left once more without uttering a word. "Are you out of your mind or what?" finally roared Razumikhin, losing his temper. "What are you playing these silly pranks for? You've confused even me! Then why the devil did you come at all?"
"I don't need... translations..." muttered Raskolnikov, already going down the stairs. "What the hell do you need, then?" shouted Razumikhin from above. The other continued descending in silence. "Hey, you! Where do you live?"
There was no answer. "Oh, to blazes with you!"
Since I took payment in advance for both sheets, the three rubles go straight to your share. Once you finish the sheet, you’ll get another three. And please, don’t think of this as any sort of favour from me. On the contrary, the moment you walked in, I was already working out how you could be useful to me. First, I’m hopeless at spelling, and second, sometimes my German is dreadful—I mostly just make things up, and console myself thinking it turns out better that way. But who knows? Maybe it’s not better—maybe worse… So, will you take it or not?
Heruvimov’s preparing this on the woman question; I’m translating it. He’ll stretch these two and a half sheets into six, we’ll slap on a grandiose half-page title, sell it for fifty kopecks. It’ll sell! They’re paying me six rubles per sheet for translation—fifteen rubles in total. I’ve already taken six in advance. Once we finish this, we’ll start translating something about whales, then some dreadfully boring gossip from the second part of ‘Confessions’—we’ve marked that too. Someone told Heruvimov that Rousseau is something like Radishchev in his own way. Of course I don’t argue—devil take it! Now, would you like to translate the second sheet of ‘Is Woman a Human Being?’? If you’re willing, just take the text right now, take pens, paper—all government-issue—and here, take three rubles.
– Just wait a moment, you sweep! You're absolutely mad! Not that I mind, you know. See here: I have no tutoring jobs myself, and frankly, I don’t care—but there’s this bookseller, Heruvimov, at the Tolkooch bazaar, who’s become a lesson in himself. I wouldn’t trade him for five merchant’s lessons now. He puts out these little publications, scientific pamphlets, and they sell like hot cakes! The very titles are worth something! You’ve always said I’m stupid—upon my word, brother, there are stupider men than me. Now he’s jumped onto the women’s movement too; doesn’t understand a bit of it himself, but of course I encourage him. Here are two and a half sheets of German text—absolute quackery, mind you—it debates whether woman is a human being or not. And of course, it solemnly proves that she is.
– Don't! – he repeated, pulling his hand away again. – Then why the hell did you come here at all? Have you lost your mind? It's... almost offensive. I won't let it go like this. – Look, I came to you because apart from you, I don't know anyone who could help me... to begin... because you're kinder than all of them, I mean, smarter, and can discuss things properly. But now I see I don't need anything, do you hear, absolutely nothing—no one's help, no one's involvement. I'll do it all myself... alone. That's enough! Just leave me alone!
– I'm not delirious... – Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. On his way up to Razumikhin, it hadn't occurred to him that he'd have to face him directly. But now, in a single moment, he realised—through bitter experience—that nothing in the world felt more unbearable at that instant than coming face to face with anyone at all. His whole body churned with bitterness. He almost choked with rage against himself, even as he crossed Razumikhin's doorstep. – Goodbye! – he suddenly said and headed for the door. – Wait, wait, you madman!
He was at home, in his tiny room, busy writing at that moment, and opened the door himself. They hadn't seen each other in about four months. Razumikhin was sitting in a tattered robe, wearing slippers on bare feet, dishevelled, unshaven, and unwashed. His face showed surprise. "What's this?" he shouted, scanning his friend from head to toe; then paused and whistled. "Surely it can't be this bad? Brother, you've outdone even us poor fellows," he added, looking at Raskolnikov's rags. "But sit down, you must be tired!" And when the other collapsed onto the vinyl-covered Turkish sofa—worse even than his own—Razumikhin suddenly noticed that his guest was ill. "Hey, you're seriously sick, did you know that?" He reached to feel his pulse, but Raskolnikov yanked his hand away. "Don't," he said. "I came… the thing is… I've lost all my tutoring… I wanted to… well, anyway, I don't need tutoring at all..."
"Listen, I think you're delirious," observed Razumikhin, watching him closely.
He suddenly stopped when he reached the embankment of the Malaya Neva on Vasilievsky Island, near the bridge. "He lives here, in this house," he thought. "Well, well, if it isn't Razumikhin's place I've come to! The very same thing again, just like last time... But it's rather curious: did I come here on purpose, or was I just walking and happened to drop by? No matter; I did say the other day... that I'd visit him the next day... well then, here I am! As if I can't possibly call on him now..."
He climbed up to Razumikhin's flat on the fifth floor.
It's because I'm very ill, he decided gloomily at last—I've worn myself out, tortured myself, and don't even know what I'm doing anymore... Yesterday, the day before, all this time—I've been torturing myself. Once I get better, I'll stop torturing myself... But what if I never get better? God! How utterly sick I am of everything!... He kept walking without stopping. He desperately wanted to distract himself somehow, but didn't know what to do or how to begin. One new, overwhelming sensation was taking hold of him more and more with almost every passing minute: an endless, almost physical revulsion toward everything he encountered and everything around him—persistent, bitter, hateful. He found every passer-by disgusting—their faces, their walk, their movements repelled him. He felt like spitting at someone, or even biting them, it seemed, if anyone dared speak to him.
Yes, that's true; all of this is true. He had known it all before, and it was not a new question for him. When it was decided in the night to throw it into the water, the decision was made without hesitation or protest, as though it had to be so, as though it could not possibly be otherwise... Yes, he remembered it all, he knew it all; hadn't it been decided just yesterday, at the very moment when he was sitting over the chest, pulling out the cases from it... Yes, that's right!..
"Damn it all!" he suddenly thought in a fit of boundless rage. "Well, if it's begun, then let it begin! To hell with this new life! How utterly foolish it all is!... And how much lying and grovelling I've done today! How disgustingly I fawned and flattered that despicable Ilya Petrovich just now! But then again, nonsense—this too! I don't give a damn about any of them, or even that I grovelled and fawned! That's not it, not at all! Not the point at all!.."
Suddenly, he stopped. A new, completely unexpected, and incredibly simple question struck him like a blow, leaving him bitterly astonished:
"If all this was truly done deliberately and not like a fool, if you really had a definite and firm goal, then how is it that you haven't even looked into the purse yet, don't know what you've gained, for the sake of which you endured all this torment and deliberately went ahead with such a vile, disgusting, low act? Why, you were just about to throw the purse into the water, along with all the things you haven't even seen yet... What does this mean?"
He walked on, glancing around distractedly and bitterly. All his thoughts now revolved around one central point—something he himself felt was truly the core of everything—and he realised that now, just now, he was finally face to face with this central issue, for the very first time in these past two months.
Then he went out and headed towards the square. Again, a sharp, almost unbearable joy seized him for a moment, just as it had in the office earlier. "The ends are hidden! And who, who on earth would think to look under this stone? It may have been lying here since the house was built and could stay there just as long again. Even if they did find it—who would ever suspect me? It's over! There's no evidence!"—and he began to laugh. Yes, he remembered afterwards that he laughed a nervous, quiet, suppressed, endless laugh, and kept on laughing all the while he crossed the square. But when he stepped onto K. Boulevard, where three days earlier he had met that little girl, his laughter suddenly stopped. Other thoughts began crowding into his mind. It suddenly seemed terribly repulsive to him to pass by that bench where he had sat after the girl left, thinking everything over, and it would be terribly painful to meet again that moustached man to whom he had given a twenty-kopeck coin: "Damn him!"
He bent down to the stone, gripped its top firmly with both hands, strained all his strength, and turned it over. A small hollow had formed beneath it; immediately he began throwing everything from his pockets into it. The purse landed right on top, yet there was still space left in the hollow. Then he seized the stone again, rolled it back into its original position with one movement, and it fit just as before—perhaps slightly, barely higher. But he scraped earth around it and pressed it down with his foot at the edges. Nothing was noticeable.
Looking around once more, he had just slipped his hand into his pocket when, near the outer wall, between the gates and the gutter—where the space was barely an arsin wide—he noticed a large, uneven stone, weighing perhaps a pud and a half, lying right against the stonework of the street wall. On the other side of that wall was the street, with footpaths, and he could hear passers-by moving about—there were always plenty around—but no one could see him from the gate unless someone came in from the street, which certainly could happen. So he had to hurry.
There must have been some establishment here—perhaps a carriage repair shop, a locksmith's, or something similar—as coal dust darkened the ground almost right from the entrance. "Perfect place to drop it and walk away!" the thought suddenly struck him. Seeing no one in the yard, he stepped through the gate and immediately spotted, close by the entrance and set against the fence, a trough (such as is commonly placed in buildings housing factories, work gangs, cart drivers, and the like), and above the trough, written in chalk on the fence, the usual joke found in such places: "Cart parking strictly prohibited here." So much the better—no suspicion would arise if he just stepped in and paused here. "I can just dump it all together somewhere and leave!"
But he was not destined to reach the islands. Instead, something else happened: as he turned from V. Avenue onto the square, he suddenly noticed on the left a gateway leading into a courtyard enclosed by completely blank walls. Immediately to the right after entering the gate, stretching deep into the yard, ran the solid, unwhitened wall of a neighbouring four-storey building. On the left, running parallel to this blind wall and starting just inside the gate, was a wooden fence extending about twenty paces into the courtyard before turning sharply to the left. This was a secluded, fenced-off area filled with piles of construction material. Further in, tucked into a corner of the yard, a corner of a low, soot-stained stone shed peeked out from behind the fence—clearly part of some workshop.
At last it occurred to him that it would be better to go somewhere along the Neva. There would be fewer people, he would be less noticeable, and in any case it would be more convenient—above all, farther from this place. He suddenly wondered: how was it that for a full half-hour he had wandered in distress and anxiety, through dangerous spots, without thinking of this earlier? No wonder he had wasted half an hour on a reckless act, since it had already been decided once before—in a dream, in delirium! He was becoming extremely absent-minded and forgetful, and he knew it. He must act quickly! He headed towards the Neva along V— Prospect. But on the way, another thought suddenly struck him: "Why go to the Neva? Why use the water? Wouldn't it be better to go very far away—perhaps again to the Islands—and bury everything in a lonely spot in the forest, under a bush? Maybe even mark the tree?" Though he felt unable to think clearly and rationally at that moment, the idea seemed unquestionably right to him.
He had been wandering along the embankment of the Ekaterininsky Canal for about half an hour, perhaps even longer, glancing repeatedly at the steps leading down into the water where they had met. But carrying out his intention was out of the question: either rafts were moored right at the steps with washerwomen scrubbing clothes, or boats were tied up, and everywhere people swarmed about. From every direction—along the embankments, from all sides—it would be clearly visible, noticeable: suspicious, that someone had deliberately come down, stopped, and thrown something into the water. What if the cases didn't sink but floated instead? Of course, they would. Everyone would see it. As it was, people kept staring at him as they passed by, eyeing him up and down as though they had nothing better to do than watch him. "Why is this happening? Or maybe it's just my imagination," he thought.
He put everything into different pockets—into his coat and the remaining right pocket of his trousers—trying to make it as inconspicuous as possible. He took the purse along with the other items. Then he left the room, this time leaving the door wide open behind him. He walked quickly and firmly, though he felt utterly broken, his senses remained clear. He feared pursuit, feared that within half an hour, perhaps even a quarter, instructions might already be issued to track him down. So, at all costs, he had to hide the evidence before it was too late. He needed to act while he still had some strength left and could think straight... But where to go? This had been decided long ago: "Throw everything into a ditch, let the ends vanish into water, and finish it all." That's what he had resolved during the feverish night, in those moments when, as he recalled, he had several times tried to get up and go—“quickly, quickly, and throw it all away.” But now, throwing it away proved extremely difficult.
He rushed to the corner, thrust his hand beneath the wallpaper, and began pulling out items, stuffing them into his pockets. There were eight pieces in all: two small boxes containing earrings or something similar—he didn't examine them closely; then four small cases made of cordovan leather. One chain was simply wrapped in newspaper. Something else was also wrapped in newspaper—seemed like a medal.
– Nothing at all! – Ilya Petrovich said in a rather peculiar tone. Nikodim Fomich was about to add something further, but glancing at the clerk, who was also staring at him very intently, he fell silent. Suddenly everyone fell quiet. It was strange. – Well then, very well, – concluded Ilya Petrovich, – we are not detaining you. Raskolnikov went out. He could still hear a lively conversation beginning behind him, in which the questioning voice of Nikodim Fomich stood out most clearly… Outside on the street, he fully came to his senses. "A search, a search—they’re going to search right now!" he kept repeating to himself as he hurried along. "Robbers! They suspect me!" The earlier fear gripped him entirely once more, from head to toe. II
"But what if the search already happened? What if I walk in and find them right there?"
And here was his room. Empty—no one there, no one had been. Not even Nastasya had touched anything. But, my God! How could he have left all those things in that hole earlier?
– Since yesterday… – Rascolnikov mumbled in reply. – Did you go out of the courtyard yesterday? – I did. – Were you unwell? – Yes, unwell. – At what time? – At eight in the evening. – And where to, if I may ask? – Along the street. – Short and clear. Raskolnikov answered sharply, in abrupt sentences, his face pale as a sheet, his black inflamed eyes fixed without flinching on Ilya Petrovich’s gaze. – He can barely stand on his feet, and you still… – Nekhodim Fomich began to say.<|im_end|>
– Where can one possibly see anything? This house is like Noah's Ark, – remarked the clerk, listening in from his seat. – It's obvious, it's clear as daylight! – insisted Nikodim Fomich heatedly. – No, the matter is far from clear, – insisted Ilya Petrovich. Raskolnikov picked up his hat and headed towards the door, but he never made it all the way…
When he came to, he found himself sitting on a chair, supported on his right by a man, while another man stood to his left holding a yellow glass filled with pale liquid, and Nikodim Fomich was standing in front of him, staring intently. He rose from the chair. – Are you unwell? – asked Nikodim Fomich rather sharply. – Even when they signed their names, their hands could barely move the pen, – remarked the clerk, settling back into his seat and returning to his papers. – How long have you been feeling unwell? – shouted Ilya Petrovich from his desk, shuffling through documents. Of course, he had examined the patient closely during the fainting spell, but had immediately turned away once the man regained consciousness.
– The point is: the murderer must have been sitting there inside and had bolted the door from within. He would've been caught red-handed, if only Koch hadn't lost his head and gone off himself to fetch the watchman. It was precisely during that interval that the killer managed to slip down the stairs and sneak past them somehow. Now Koch is crossing himself with both hands: "If only I'd stayed there," he says, "he'd have jumped out and killed me with the axe." Wants to hold a thanksgiving service in Russian, heh-heh!.. – But did anyone actually see the murderer?
– It can't be that both will go free! First of all, everything contradicts that. Think for yourself: why would they call the watchman if it were their doing? To confess against themselves? Or as a trick? No, that would be far too cunning! And finally, the student Pestrjakov was seen right at the gate by both watchmen and a towns-woman at the very moment he entered. He came with three friends and parted from them just at the gate, and he asked the watchmen about renting a room—right in front of his friends. Now, would a man in such a state of mind go around asking about room rentals? As for Koch, he sat downstairs with the goldsmith for half an hour before going up, and left him exactly a quarter to eight, heading upstairs to the old woman. Now just think it over... – But excuse me, how could such a contradiction happen with them? They themselves say they knocked and the door was locked, but three minutes later, when they came back with the watchman, the door was open?
Raskolnikov handed back the pen, but instead of standing up and leaving, he propped both elbows on the table and pressed his hands tightly to his head. It felt as though a nail were being driven into his temple. A strange thought suddenly struck him: to get up right now, walk over to Nikodim Fomich, and tell him everything about yesterday—every last detail—then go with them to the apartment and show them the things hidden in the corner, in the hole. The urge was so strong that he actually rose from his seat to carry it out. "Shouldn't I think it over for just a minute?" flashed through his mind. "No, better not think at all—just get it off my chest!" But suddenly he froze in his place: Nikodim Fomich was speaking heatedly to Ilya Petrovich, and he caught the words:
The clerk began dictating to him the standard form of acknowledgment used in such cases—namely, that he could not pay at present, promised to settle by such-and-such a date (sometime), would not leave the city, and would neither sell nor give away his property, and so on. “You can't write properly—your pen is slipping from your hands,” observed the clerk, eyeing Raskolnikov with curiosity. “Are you unwell?”
“Yes… my head is spinning… go on!”
“That's all—just sign here.”
The clerk took the paper and turned to assist others.
And what was most agonizing was that it was more a feeling than a thought, more a direct sensation—the most painful sensation he had ever known in all his life.
It was not the meanness of his emotional outburst before Ilya Petrovich, nor the petty triumph of the officers over him, that had so suddenly turned his heart upside down. Oh, what did he care now for his own baseness, for all those ambitions, officers, German women, claims, offices and so on and so forth? Even if he had been sentenced to be burned alive at that very moment, he would not have stirred, nor would he likely have listened carefully to the verdict. Something entirely unfamiliar, new, sudden, and unprecedented was happening within him. It was not so much that he understood it, but he felt it clearly, with his entire being—a feeling that he could never again have anything in common with these people in the police station, not even if they were his own brothers and sisters, rather than mere constables. He had never before experienced such a strange and terrible sensation.
Raskolnikov felt that the clerk had begun to treat him more carelessly and contemptuously after his confession. But strangely enough, he suddenly found he no longer cared a bit for anyone's opinion—this change had come over him in an instant, in a single moment. Had he paused to reflect, he would certainly have been astonished at how he could have spoken to them so just a minute ago, even thrusting his feelings upon them? And where had those feelings come from? On the contrary, now, even if the room were suddenly filled not with police officers but with his closest friends, he knew he would not have a single human word for them—so suddenly had his heart grown empty. A dark sense of painful, endless isolation and alienation had now clearly made itself known to his soul.
– All these sensitive details, my good sir, are of no concern to us, – snapped Ilya Petrovich rudely. – You must simply give your statement and a written undertaking. Whether you happened to be in love or involved in tragic affairs – we have absolutely no interest in that. – Now really… that's harsh… – muttered Nikodim Fomich, sitting down at the table and beginning to sign the papers. He felt somewhat ashamed. – Just write this down, – said the clerk to Raskolnikov. – What should I write? – the latter asked in an unusually coarse manner. – I'll dictate it to you.
What am I supposed to say now?
– But please, just let me explain, partly, what actually happened… and in turn… though I agree with you, it's quite unnecessary to go into details… but this girl passed away from typhus about a year ago. I continued staying as a tenant, and when the landlady moved to her present flat, she spoke to me… very kindly, I must say… expressing complete trust in me, and all that… but asked if I wouldn’t mind giving her a promissory note for one hundred and fifteen rupees, the exact amount she claimed I owed her. Allow me to point out: she specifically said that as soon as I gave her this document, she would extend me credit again freely, and that never, never—those were her exact words—would she use this note against me, as long as I eventually paid on my own. And now, when I’ve lost my tutoring jobs and have nothing to eat, she’s moved to recover the amount.
– You don't need to go into such personal details at all, my good sir, and besides, there's no time for it, – Ilya Petrovich interrupted rudely and triumphantly, but Raskolnikov stopped him eagerly, though he suddenly found it extremely difficult to speak.
– Allow me, allow me, I quite agree with you, but let me also explain – interjected Raskolnikov, addressing not the clerk but still turning to Nikodim Fomich, though making every effort to include Ilya Petrovich as well, who stubbornly pretended to be busy shuffling through papers and disdainfully ignored him – let me just clarify my own position. I’ve been living with her for about three years now, ever since I arrived from the provinces, and earlier… well, earlier, in fact, why shouldn’t I admit it myself, right from the start I gave a promise – verbal, entirely informal – that I would marry her daughter. The girl… well, I even liked her… though I wasn’t in love… in short, youth, that is, what I mean is, the landlady extended me quite a lot of credit then, and I led rather a careless sort of life…
– And what kind of r-r-regiment was it! – exclaimed Ilya Petrovich, quite pleased that his pride had been so pleasantly tickled, though still trying to maintain a stern tone. Suddenly, Raskolnikov felt an urge to say something exceptionally agreeable to all of them. – Why, really, Captain, – he began quite smoothly, suddenly addressing Nikodim Fomich, – just consider my position… I'm even ready to apologise to them if I've failed in any way on my part. I’m a poor and sick student, burdened (he actually said "burdened") by poverty. I was a student, but now I can't afford to continue, though I shall receive money… My mother and sister are in the – province. They will send me funds, and then I… will pay. My landlady is a kind woman, but she's grown so angry that I've lost my tutoring jobs and haven't paid her for four months, she won't even send me meals anymore… And I don't understand at all what this promissory note is about! Now she's demanding payment based on this loan document—what can I possibly pay her with, just think for yourselves! – But that's got nothing to do with us… – the clerk was about to say again…
– Poverty is no crime, my friend, well yes, indeed! But you see, he was like gunpowder—couldn't bear an insult. You must have somehow offended him, and lost your temper yourself too – continued Nikodim Fomich, kindly addressing Raskolnikov – but you were quite mistaken: he was the most good-hearted, peace-loving man you could meet, but like gunpowder—oh yes, gunpowder! Flared up, boiled over, burned out—and it's all gone! And nothing left but the gold of his heart! In the regiment, they used to call him 'Lieutenant Gunpowder'…
– Again the thunder, the lightning, a whirlwind, a storm! – Nикodim Fomich said kindly and amiably to Ilya Petrovich – once more your heart is stirred, boiling over again! I could hear it from the staircase. – Oh really! – Ilya Petrovich replied with noble nonchalance (and not just "really", but more like "Oh-h, wha-at?!"), moving towards another table with some papers, dramatically twitching his shoulder with every step—where the foot went, the shoulder followed. – Look here, sir: this gentleman, a writer, or rather a student—formerly a student—who refuses to pay his dues, has issued promissory notes, won't vacate his room, and constant complaints keep pouring in; yet he dares to take offence because I lit a cigarette in his presence! They behave disgracefully themselves, and yet, sir, please have a look at him now—here he stands in his most charming appearance!
With fussy politeness, Luiza Ivanovna began bobbing her curtsies in all directions, and while curtsying, shuffled all the way to the door; but in the doorway, she bumped backwards with her rear end into a distinguished officer—fresh-faced, with magnificent, thick, fair whiskers. It was none other than Nikodim Fomich, the local police inspector. Luiza Ivanovna quickly dropped into another deep curtsy, almost touching the floor, then, with rapid little steps, hopping slightly, darted out of the office.
"...So here's my final word for you, respected Ivanovna, and this is truly the last time," continued the officer. "If there's one more scandal in your respectable establishment, I'll put you straight on the *zugsundar*, as they say in high style. Heard that? A writer, an author, took five whole roubles from a 'respectable house' just for holding onto someone's coat-tail! Look at these authors!—" He shot a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. "The other day in a tavern, same story—he had his meal but refused to pay: 'I'll write a satire about you for this,' says he. On a steamer last week, another one insulted in the vilest terms a respectable family of a privy councillor—his wife and daughter. Just recently, one was kicked out of a confectioner's shop, got into a scuffle. That's what your authors, writers, students, and loudmouths are like... pah! And off you go! I'll come by myself to see you... then watch out! Got it?"
– A writer, is he? – Yes, sir, Captain, and what kind of lowly guest would that be, sir, coming into a respectable household... – There, there, enough! I've told you already, haven't I? I've already told you... – Ilya Petrovich! – the clerk said meaningfully once again. The lieutenant glanced at him quickly; the clerk gave a slight nod.
– No noise, no fight at my place, sir, Captain, – she suddenly babbled like peas spilling, with a strong German accent but fluent Russian – and no scandal at all, but they came drunk, and I'll tell everything, Captain, I'm not to blame… I run a respectable house, Captain, very respectable, Captain, and always, always I myself never wanted any scandal. But they came drunk, and then asked for three more bottles, and then one put his feet up and started playing piano with his feet – very bad for a respectable house, Captain, he was ruining the whole piano, and had no manners at all, I said so. Then he took a bottle and began poking everyone from behind with it. So I quickly called the watchman, and Karl came, but he grabbed Karl and hit his eye, and gave Henriette a black eye too, and slapped me on the cheek five times! And this is so undelicate in a respectable house, Captain, and I screamed. Then he opened the window and stood there at the window squealing like a little pig – disgraceful! How can anyone squeal out the window into the street like a little pig – shameful! Tsk-tsk-tsk! And Karl pulled him back from behind by his coat-tails, and, true, Captain, his coat was torn then. And then he shouted that I must pay him fifteen roubles damages! But I myself, Captain, gave him five roubles for his coat. And he was such an ungentlemanly guest, Captain, causing all this scandal! I'll bring great disgrace upon you, I said, because I can write all about you in every newspaper!
As for the lady in fine attire, she initially trembled in fear at the thunder and lightning; but strange as it was, the more numerous and forceful the insults became, the more pleasant her expression grew, and the more charming her smile towards the furious officer. She shuffled on the spot, constantly curtsying, eagerly waiting for a chance to put in her own word—and she got her chance at last.
– You, you wretched, shameless woman! – he suddenly bellowed at the top of his voice (the mourning woman had already stepped out) – What happened last night at your place again, eh? More disgrace, drunken brawling all over the street! Fighting and drinking again? Is that what you want – straight into the straitjacket? I’ve already told you, warned you ten times already – the eleventh time, I swear, I won’t let it pass! And yet here you go again, again – you disgraceful, shameless hussy! The paper dropped from Raskolnikov’s hands, and he stared wildly at the plump lady being so rudely scolded; but soon he grasped what was going on, and at once the whole scene began to amuse him greatly. He listened with delight, so much so that he felt like bursting into laughter, loud, uncontrollable laughter… His nerves were jumping with excitement. – Ilya Petrovich! – the clerk began cautiously, but stopped short, waiting for the right moment, knowing well from experience that an enraged officer couldn’t be restrained except by physical force.
The lieutenant, still shaken by the disrespect shown to him, still burning with anger, and clearly eager to uphold his wounded pride, unleashed his full fury upon the unfortunate "buxom lady," who had been staring at him with the silliest of smiles ever since he entered.
The clerk looked at him with a condescending smile, mingled with pity and a touch of triumph, as one might at a newcomer just caught in the crossfire: "Well, how do you feel now?" But what did a mere loan letter, what did debt collection matter to him now? Was it even worth a moment's worry, a moment's attention? He stood there, reading, listening, answering, even asking questions—but all mechanically. The instinct of self-preservation, the deliverance from crushing danger—this alone filled his entire being at that instant, without foresight, without analysis, without thoughts of the future, without doubt or questioning. It was a moment of full, immediate, purely animal joy. But at that very instant, something like thunder and lightning burst in the office.