Capítulo 12 de 41

V

This was a gentleman of middle age already, prim, dignified, with a cautious and peevish physiognomy, who began by stopping in the doorway, looking around with offensively undisguised astonishment and as if asking with his eyes: "Where have I ended up?" Mistrustfully and even with an affectation of some alarm, almost of offense even, he surveyed Raskolnikov's cramped and low "ship's cabin." With the same astonishment he then shifted and fixed his eyes on Raskolnikov himself, undressed, disheveled, unwashed, lying on his miserable dirty sofa and also motionlessly examining him. Then, with the same deliberateness, he began examining the disheveled, unshaven and uncombed figure of Razumikhin, who in turn was boldly and questioningly staring straight into his eyes without moving from his spot. The strained silence lasted about a minute, and finally, as was to be expected, a slight change of scenery occurred. Having gathered, apparently, from certain, however quite obvious, data, that exaggeratedly stern bearing would get him absolutely nowhere here, in this "ship's cabin," the gentleman who had entered softened somewhat and politely, though not without severity, pronounced, addressing Zosimov and enunciating each syllable of his question:

"Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, a student or former student, sir?"

Zosimov stirred slowly and perhaps would have answered, if Razumikhin, to whom the question was not addressed at all, had not forestalled him immediately:

"There he is lying on the sofa! And what do you need?"

This familiar "and what do you need?" so cut down the prim gentleman; he even almost turned toward Razumikhin, but managed to restrain himself in time and quickly turned back to Zosimov.

"That's Raskolnikov!" mumbled Zosimov, nodding at the patient, then yawned, opening his mouth somehow extraordinarily wide in the process and keeping it in that position extraordinarily long. Then he slowly reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out huge bulging dull gold watches, opened them, looked, and just as slowly and lazily reached to put them away again.

Raskolnikov himself lay silent all the while, on his back, and stubbornly, though without any thought, stared at the visitor. His face, which had now turned away from the curious flower on the wallpaper, was exceedingly pale and expressed extraordinary suffering, as if he had just undergone a painful operation or had just been released from torture. But the gentleman who had entered gradually began to arouse more and more attention in him, then perplexity, then mistrust and even something like fear. When Zosimov, pointing at him, said: "that's Raskolnikov," he suddenly, quickly raising himself, almost jumping up, sat up in bed and in an almost challenging, but broken and weak voice pronounced:

"Yes! I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?"

The visitor looked at him attentively and pronounced impressively:

"Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin. I am in full hope that my name is not entirely unknown to you."

But Raskolnikov, who had been expecting something quite different, looked at him dully and pensively and said nothing, as if he was hearing the name of Pyotr Petrovich decidedly for the first time.

"What? Can it be you have still not received any news?" asked Pyotr Petrovich, somewhat put out.

In response to this, Raskolnikov slowly sank back onto his pillow, put his hands behind his head and began staring at the ceiling. Anguish showed in Luzhin's face. Zosimov and Razumikhin took to examining him with still greater curiosity, and he visibly became embarrassed at last.

"I supposed and calculated," he mumbled, "that a letter sent more than ten days ago, almost two weeks even..."

"Listen, why are you standing at the door?" Razumikhin suddenly interrupted, "if you have something to explain, then sit down, and it's cramped for both of you there with Nastasya. Nastasyushka, step aside, let him through! Come on through, here's a chair for you, right here! Squeeze through!"

He moved his chair away from the table, freed up a little space between the table and his knees and waited somewhat in a strained position for the guest to "squeeze through" this crack. The moment was so chosen that it was impossible to refuse, and the guest squeezed through the narrow space, hurrying and stumbling. Having reached the chair, he sat down and looked at Razumikhin suspiciously.

"You needn't be embarrassed, though," the latter blurted out, "Rodya has been ill for five days now and delirious for three days, but now he's come to and even ate with appetite. This here is his doctor sitting, who just examined him, and I'm Rodka's friend, also a former student, and now I'm looking after him; so don't mind us and don't be constrained, but continue with what you need."

"Thank you. However, shall I not be disturbing the patient with my presence and conversation?" Pyotr Petrovich addressed Zosimov.

"N-no," mumbled Zosimov, "you may even provide a distraction," and he yawned again.

"Oh, he's been in his right mind for a long time now, since morning!" continued Razumikhin, whose familiarity had the appearance of such genuine simple-heartedness that Pyotr Petrovich thought better of it and began to take courage, perhaps partly also because this ragamuffin and impudent fellow had managed to introduce himself as a student after all.

"Your mother..." Luzhin began.

"Hm!" Razumikhin said loudly. Luzhin looked at him questioningly.

"Nothing, just so; go on..."

Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.

"...Your mother, while I was still with them, began a letter to you. Upon arriving here, I deliberately let several days pass and did not come to you, so as to be fully certain that you were informed of everything; but now, to my surprise..."

"I know, I know!" Raskolnikov suddenly said, with an expression of the most impatient vexation. "So it's you? The fiancé? Well, I know!.. and enough!"

Pyotr Petrovich was decidedly offended, but said nothing. He hastily tried to comprehend what all this meant. There was silence for a minute.

Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned slightly toward him when answering, suddenly began examining him again intently and with some special curiosity, as if he had not managed to examine him fully before or as if something new in him had struck him: he even raised himself from the pillow on purpose for this. Indeed, there was something striking in Pyotr Petrovich's general appearance, namely, something as if justifying the title of "fiancé," so unceremoniously given to him just now. First of all, it was evident and even too noticeable that Pyotr Petrovich had hastily hurried to take advantage of his few days in the capital to manage to get dressed up and beautified in anticipation of his bride, which, however, was quite innocent and permissible. Even his own, perhaps even too self-satisfied, consciousness of his pleasant change for the better could have been forgiven for such an occasion, for Pyotr Petrovich stood in the rank of fiancé. All his clothes were straight from the tailor, and everything was fine, except perhaps only that everything was too new and too obviously indicated a certain purpose. Even the smart, brand-new round hat testified to this purpose: Pyotr Petrovich somehow treated it too respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. Even the lovely pair of Jouvin gloves, lilac-colored, genuine, testified to the same thing, if only by the fact that they were not worn but only carried in the hands for show. In Pyotr Petrovich's clothing, light and youthful colors predominated. He wore a pretty summer jacket of light brown shade, light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the same, just-purchased fine linen, the lightest batiste cravat with pink stripes, and what was best of all: all this was even becoming to Pyotr Petrovich. His face, very fresh and even handsome, looked younger than its forty-five years anyway. Dark sideburns pleasantly shaded it on both sides, in the form of two cutlets, and thickened very prettily near his cleanly shaven gleaming chin. Even his hair, though only very slightly graying, combed and curled at the hairdresser's, did not present anything ridiculous or any sort of stupid appearance by this circumstance, which always ordinarily happens with curled hair, because it gives the face an inevitable resemblance to a German going to his wedding. If there was anything in this rather handsome and solid physiognomy truly unpleasant and repulsive, it proceeded from other causes. Having examined Mr. Luzhin without ceremony, Raskolnikov smiled venomously, sank back onto his pillow again and began staring at the ceiling as before.

But Mr. Luzhin steeled himself and apparently decided not to notice all these oddities for the time being.

"I am very, very sorry to find you in such a condition," he began again, with effort breaking the silence. "If I had known of your illness, I would have called earlier. But, you know, business!.. I have, moreover, very important business in the Senate concerning my legal practice. Not to mention those concerns which you can guess. I am expecting your, that is, your mother and sister, any hour now..."

Raskolnikov stirred and was about to say something; his face expressed some agitation. Pyotr Petrovich paused, waited, but since nothing followed, he continued:

"...Any hour now. I have found them lodgings for the first time..."

"Where?" Raskolnikov said weakly.

"Very near here, Bakaleyev's house..."

"That's on Voznesensky," Razumikhin interrupted, "there are two floors of rooms there; merchant Yushin runs them; I've been there."

"Yes, rooms, sir..."

"Terrible nastiness: dirt, stench, and a suspicious place besides; things have happened; and the devil knows who doesn't live there!.. I myself dropped in on account of a scandalous incident. Cheap, though."

"I, of course, could not gather so much information, as I am a newcomer myself," Pyotr Petrovich replied delicately, "but, however, two very, very clean little rooms, and since this is for a very short term... I have already found the real, that is, our future apartment," he turned to Raskolnikov, "and now it's being done up; and meanwhile I'm cramped myself in rooms, two steps from here, at Madame Lippevechsel's, in the apartment of a young friend of mine, Andrei Semyonovich Lebeziatnikov; he's the one who pointed out Bakaleyev's house to me..."

"Lebeziatnikov?" Raskolnikov said slowly, as if remembering something.

"Yes, Andrei Semyonovich Lebeziatnikov, serving in the ministry. Do you know him?"

"Yes... no..." answered Raskolnikov.

"Excuse me, it seemed so to me from your question. I was once his guardian... a very nice young man... and progressive... I'm always glad to meet young people: you learn what's new from them." Pyotr Petrovich looked around at all those present hopefully.

"In what respect?" asked Razumikhin.

"In the most serious respect, so to speak, in the very essence of the matter," Pyotr Petrovich caught up, as if rejoicing at the question. "You see, I haven't visited Petersburg for ten years now. All these novelties of ours, reforms, ideas—all this has touched us in the provinces too; but to see more clearly and to see everything, one must be in Petersburg. Well, sir, and my thought is precisely this, that you will notice and learn most by observing our young generations. And I confess: I rejoiced..."

"At what exactly?"

"Your question is broad. I may be mistaken, but it seems to me I find a clearer view, more, so to speak, criticism; more practicality..."

"That's true," Zosimov drawled.

"You're lying, there's no practicality," Razumikhin pounced. "Practicality is acquired with difficulty, and doesn't fall from the sky as a gift. And we've been out of the habit of any work for nearly two hundred years... Ideas, perhaps, are wandering about," he turned to Pyotr Petrovich, "and the desire for good exists, though childish; and honesty can even be found, despite the fact that countless swindlers have come flooding in here, but there's still no practicality! Practicality wears boots."

"I don't agree with you," Pyotr Petrovich objected with visible pleasure, "of course, there are excesses, irregularities, but one must be indulgent too: the excesses testify to ardor for the cause and to the irregular external setting in which the cause finds itself. If little has been done, well, there has been little time. I don't speak of means. According to my personal view, if you like, something has even been done: new, useful thoughts have been disseminated, certain new, useful works have been disseminated instead of the former dreamy and romantic ones; literature is taking on a more mature tinge; many harmful prejudices have been rooted out and ridiculed... In a word, we have irrevocably cut ourselves off from the past, and that, in my opinion, is already something, sir..."

"He's memorized it! Trying to make a good impression," Raskolnikov suddenly pronounced.

"What, sir?" asked Pyotr Petrovich, not having heard, but he received no answer.

"That's all quite true," Zosimov hastened to interject.

"Isn't that so, sir?" continued Pyotr Petrovich, glancing pleasantly at Zosimov. "You must agree yourself," he continued, addressing Razumikhin, but now with a shade of some triumph and superiority, and almost adding: "young man," "that there is progress, or, as they say now, progress, if only in the name of science and economic truth..."

"A commonplace!"

"No, not a commonplace, sir! If, for example, I have been told up to now: 'love,' and I loved, what came of it?" continued Pyotr Petrovich, perhaps with excessive haste, "what came of it was that I tore my caftan in half, shared it with my neighbor, and we both remained half naked, according to the Russian proverb: 'Chase several rabbits at once, and you won't catch a single one.' Science, however, says: love yourself first of all, because everything in the world is based on personal interest. If you love yourself, then you'll conduct your affairs properly, and your caftan will remain whole. Economic truth adds that the more properly arranged private affairs there are in society and, so to speak, whole caftans, the firmer its foundations and the better arranged the common cause becomes in it. Consequently, by acquiring solely and exclusively for myself, I am precisely thereby acquiring as it were for everyone and leading to the point where my neighbor receives somewhat more than a torn caftan, and not from private, individual munificence, but as a consequence of general progress. The thought is simple, but, unfortunately, has been too long in coming, obscured by enthusiasm and dreaminess, whereas it would seem one needs little wit to figure it out..."

"Excuse me, I'm not very witty either," Razumikhin interrupted sharply, "and therefore let's stop. I spoke with a purpose after all, but all this self-gratifying chatter, these incessant, continuous commonplaces, and always the same and the same, have become so revolting over three years that, by God, I blush when other people, not just I, speak them in my presence. You, of course, hastened to recommend yourself with your knowledge, that's quite pardonable, and I don't condemn it. I just wanted to find out now who you are, because, you see, so many various operators have attached themselves to the common cause lately, and have so distorted everything they've touched in their own interest, that they've decidedly fouled up the whole thing. Well, sir, and enough!"

"My dear sir," Mr. Luzhin began, bridling with extraordinary dignity, "do you mean to imply so unceremoniously that I too..."

"Oh, for goodness sake, for goodness sake... How could I?.. Well, sir, and enough!" Razumikhin cut him off and turned abruptly to continue his earlier conversation with Zosimov.

Pyotr Petrovich proved wise enough to believe the explanation immediately. He decided, however, to leave in two minutes.

"I hope that our acquaintance now begun," he addressed Raskolnikov, "after your recovery and in view of circumstances known to you, will become even stronger... I especially wish you health..."

Raskolnikov didn't even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovich began to rise from his chair.

"The killer was definitely one of the pawners?" Zosimov was saying affirmatively.

"Definitely one of the pawners!" Razumikhin echoed. "Porfiry doesn't give away his thoughts, but he's still interrogating the pawners..."

"He's interrogating the pawners?" Raskolnikov asked loudly.

"Yes, so what?"

"Nothing."

"How does he find them?" asked Zosimov.

"Koch pointed out some; the names of others were written on the wrappings of things, and some came themselves when they heard..."

"Well, he must be a clever and experienced scoundrel! What audacity! What determination!"

"That's just it, he's not!" Razumikhin interrupted. "That's what throws you all off track. And I say—clumsy, inexperienced, and surely it was his first step! Assume calculation and a clever scoundrel, and it becomes improbable. But assume an inexperienced one, and it turns out that chance alone got him out of trouble, and what can't chance do? Good Lord, maybe he didn't even foresee the obstacles! And how does he conduct the business?—he takes things worth ten or twenty rubles, stuffs his pockets with them, rummages in the old woman's trunk, in rags—while in the bureau, in the top drawer, in the box, they found a full fifteen hundred in clean money, besides notes! And he didn't even know how to rob, he only managed to kill! First step, I tell you, first step; he lost his head! And he got out not by calculation but by chance!"

"This seems to be about the recent murder of an old woman, a civil servant's widow," Pyotr Petrovich interjected, addressing Zosimov, already standing with hat and gloves in hand, but wishing to drop a few more clever words before leaving. He was visibly concerned about a favorable impression, and vanity overcame prudence.

"Yes. You heard about it?"

"How could I not, sir, in the neighborhood..."

"You know the details?"

"I cannot say; but another circumstance interests me in this case, so to speak, a whole question. I don't even speak of the fact that crime in the lower class has increased in the last five years; I don't speak of the universal and continuous robberies and fires; what's strangest for me is that crime in the higher classes is increasing in the same way and, so to speak, in parallel. There, one hears, a former student robbed the mail on the highway; there, leading people, by their social position, are making counterfeit bills; there, in Moscow, they catch a whole company of forgers of tickets for the last lottery loan—and one of the main participants is a lecturer of universal history; there they kill our secretary abroad, for monetary and mysterious reasons... And if now this old woman pawnbroker was killed by one of the pawners, then this, consequently, was a person from a higher society—for peasants don't pawn gold items—then how to explain this on the one hand dissolute behavior of the civilized part of our society?"

"Many economic changes..." Zosimov responded.

"How to explain it?" Razumikhin latched on. "Why, it could be explained precisely by our too deep-rooted impracticality."

"That is, how so, sir?"

"Why, what did that lecturer of yours in Moscow answer to the question why he was forging tickets: 'Everyone gets rich by various means, so I too wanted to get rich quickly.' I don't remember the exact words, but the meaning was that he wanted it for free, quickly, without work! They're used to living on everything ready-made, walking on others' legs, eating what's been chewed. Well, the great hour struck, and everyone showed himself for what he is..."

"But what about morality, however? And, so to speak, principles..."

"Why are you so concerned?" Raskolnikov suddenly interjected. "It follows your own theory!"

"How does it follow my theory?"

"Carry to its consequences what you were preaching earlier, and it turns out that people can be slaughtered..."

"Good heavens!" cried Luzhin.

"No, that's not so!" Zosimov responded.

Raskolnikov lay pale, with his upper lip quivering and breathing with difficulty.

"There's a measure to everything," Luzhin continued haughtily, "an economic idea is not yet an invitation to murder, and if one only supposes..."

"And is it true," Raskolnikov suddenly interrupted again in a voice trembling with malice, in which some joy of insult could be heard, "is it true that you told your fiancée... at the very hour when you received her consent, that you were most glad of all... that she was poor... because it's more profitable to take a wife from poverty, so as to dominate her afterward... and reproach her with the fact that she was benefited by you?..

"My dear sir!" Luzhin cried out maliciously and irritably, flushing all over and becoming confused, "my dear sir... to distort a thought so! Excuse me, but I must tell you that the rumors that have reached you or, better to say, have been brought to you, have not a shadow of sound basis, and I... suspect who... in a word... this arrow... in a word, your mother... She seemed to me anyway, despite all her excellent qualities, to have somewhat of an enthusiastic and romantic tinge in her thoughts... But still I was a thousand versts from supposing that she could understand and present the matter in such a view distorted by fantasy... And finally... finally..."

"And you know what?" cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and staring at him point-blank with a piercing, gleaming gaze, "you know what?"

"What, sir?" Luzhin stopped and waited with an offended and challenging air. Several seconds of silence passed.

"Why, if you ever again... dare to mention even one word... about my mother... I'll throw you headlong down the stairs!"

"What's wrong with you!" cried Razumikhin.

"Ah, so that's it, sir!" Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. "Listen, sir, to me," he began deliberately and restraining himself with all his might, but still gasping for breath, "I guessed your hostility from the very first step, but I deliberately remained here to learn even more. I could forgive much to a sick man and relative, but now... you... never, sir..."

"I'm not sick!" cried Raskolnikov.

"All the more so, sir..."

"Go to the devil!"

But Luzhin was already leaving on his own, without finishing his speech, squeezing again between the table and chair; Razumikhin stood up this time to let him through. Without looking at anyone and without even nodding to Zosimov, who had long been nodding to him to leave the patient alone, Luzhin went out, carefully raising his hat level with his shoulder as he passed through the door bent over. And even in the curve of his back something seemed to express on this occasion that he was carrying away with him a terrible insult.

"How could you, how could you do that?" said the bewildered Razumikhin, shaking his head.

"Leave me, leave me all of you!" Raskolnikov cried out in a frenzy. "Will you finally leave me, tormentors! I'm not afraid of you! I'm not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Away from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone, alone!"

"Come on!" said Zosimov, nodding to Razumikhin.

"Good Lord, can we really leave him like this?"

"Come on!" Zosimov repeated insistently and went out. Razumikhin thought a moment and ran to catch up with him.

"It could have been worse if we hadn't obeyed him," said Zosimov, already on the stairs. "He mustn't be irritated..."

"What's wrong with him?"

"If only he could get some kind of favorable push, that's what! He was strong earlier... You know, he has something on his mind! Something fixed, oppressive... I'm very much afraid of that; definitely!"

"But this gentleman, perhaps, this Pyotr Petrovich! It's clear from the conversation that he's marrying his sister and that Rodya received a letter about it just before his illness..."

"Yes; the devil brought him now; he may have upset everything. And did you notice, he's indifferent to everything, keeps silent about everything, except one point that drives him out of himself: this murder..."

"Yes, yes!" Razumikhin caught up, "I noticed it very much! He's interested, frightened. It frightened him on the very day of his illness, at the superintendent's office; he fainted."

"You'll tell me about this in detail tonight, and then I'll tell you something. He interests me, very much! I'll stop by in half an hour to check on him... There won't be any inflammation, though..."

"Thanks! And I'll wait at Pashenka's meanwhile and will observe him through Nastasya..."

Raskolnikov, left alone, looked at Nastasya with impatience and anguish; but she still lingered before leaving.

"Will you drink tea now?" she asked.

"Later! I want to sleep! Leave me..."

He turned convulsively to the wall; Nastasya went out.