De: Crime and Punishment
II
Worried and serious, Razumikhin awoke the next day at eight o'clock. Many new and unforeseen perplexities suddenly confronted him that morning. He had never imagined that he would wake up like this someday. He remembered everything from yesterday down to the last detail and understood that something extraordinary had happened to him, that he had received an impression completely unknown to him until now and unlike all previous ones. At the same time, he clearly realized that the dream that had flared up in his head was extremely unrealizable—so unrealizable that he even felt ashamed of it, and he quickly moved on to other, more pressing concerns and perplexities left to him as a legacy from "that thrice-cursed yesterday."
His most terrible recollection was of how he had proven himself yesterday to be "low and vile," not only because he was drunk, but because, taking advantage of her position, he had abused her fiancé before the girl out of stupid, hasty jealousy, knowing neither their mutual relations and obligations, nor even the man himself properly. And what right did he have to judge him so hastily and rashly? And who asked him to be a judge! Could such a being as Avdotya Romanovna give herself to an unworthy man for money? Therefore, there must be virtues in him too. The furnished rooms? But why should he really know what kind of furnished rooms they are? After all, he's preparing an apartment... ugh, how low all this is! And what justification is it that he was drunk? A stupid excuse, humiliating him even more! In wine is truth, and all the truth came out, "that is, all the filth of his envious, coarse heart came out"! And is such a dream permissible for him, Razumikhin, even to the slightest degree? Who is he compared to such a girl—he, a drunken rowdy and yesterday's braggart? "Is such a cynical and ridiculous comparison even possible?" Razumikhin blushed desperately at this thought, and suddenly, as if on purpose, at that very moment, he clearly recalled how he had told them yesterday, standing on the stairs, that the landlady would be jealous of him on account of Avdotya Romanovna... this was unbearable. With all his might he struck his fist on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand, and knocked out a brick.
"Of course," he muttered to himself after a minute, with a feeling of self-abasement, "of course, all this vileness can never be painted over or smoothed away now... and therefore there's nothing to think about it, and so I must appear silently, and... fulfill my obligations... also silently, and not ask for forgiveness, and say nothing, and... and, of course, now all is lost!"
And yet, while dressing, he examined his costume more carefully than usual. He had no other clothes, and if he had, he might not have put them on—"just so, on purpose would not have put them on." But in any case, he could not remain a cynic and a filthy sloven: he had no right to offend the feelings of others, especially since those others needed him themselves and were calling him to them. He carefully brushed his clothes. His linen was always decent; on this account he was particularly fastidious.
He washed himself zealously that morning—Nastasya had some soap—washed his hair, neck, and especially his hands. When it came to the question of whether to shave his stubble or not (Praskovya Pavlovna had excellent razors, preserved from the late Mr. Zarnitsyn), the question was even bitterly decided in the negative: "Let it stay as it is! What if they think I shaved for... they'll certainly think so! Not for anything in the world! And... and the main thing is, he's so coarse, dirty, his manner is tavern-like; and... and, suppose he knows that he too, well at least a little, is a decent man... well, then what's there to be proud of, that he's a decent man? Everyone should be a decent man, and even cleaner, and... and yet (he remembered this) there were such affairs behind him too... not dishonorable exactly, but still!.. And what thoughts he had! hmm... and to put all this side by side with Avdotya Romanovna! Well then, the devil! Well, let it be! I'll be deliberately dirty, greasy, tavern-like, and to hell with it! I'll be even more so!..."
Zosimov, who had spent the night in the drawing room at Praskovya Pavlovna's, caught him in such monologues.
He was going home and, leaving, hurried to look in on the patient. Razumikhin reported to him that the patient was sleeping like a log. Zosimov ordered not to wake him until he woke up. He promised to stop by himself at about eleven.
"If only he's home," he added. "Damn it! Not having control over one's own patient, and you're supposed to treat him! Do you know if he'll go to them, or will they come here?"
"They will, I think," answered Razumikhin, understanding the purpose of the question, "and they'll certainly talk about their family affairs. I'll leave. You, as a doctor, naturally have more rights than I do."
"I'm not a confessor either; I'll come and go; I have plenty of other business."
"One thing worries me," interrupted Razumikhin, frowning, "yesterday, drunk, I blabbed to him, on the way, about various stupid things... about various... among other things, that you're afraid that he... has an inclination to madness..."
"You blabbed the same thing to the ladies yesterday."
"I know it was stupid! Beat me if you want! But what, did you really have some firm idea?"
"Nonsense, I say; what firm idea! You yourself described him as a monomaniac when you brought me to him... Well, and yesterday we added fuel to the fire, you did, I mean, with those stories... about the painter; fine conversation, when he himself may have gone mad over just that! If only I'd known exactly what happened at the police station then and that some scoundrel there had offended him with this suspicion... Hmm... I wouldn't have allowed such a conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs make an ocean out of a drop, see fabrications as living reality... As far as I remember from Zametov's story yesterday, half the matter became clear to me. Why! I know one case of how a hypochondriac, a forty-year-old man, unable to endure the daily mockery at table from an eight-year-old boy, stabbed him! And here, all in rags, an insolent district police officer, an illness beginning, and such a suspicion! To a raving hypochondriac! With insane, exclusive vanity! This may be where the whole starting point of the disease lies! Well, the devil!.. And incidentally, this Zametov is really a nice fellow, only hmm... it was unnecessary for him to tell all that yesterday. A terrible chatterbox!"
"But whom did he tell? You and me?"
"And Porfiry."
"So what if Porfiry?"
"By the way, do you have any influence over them, over the mother and sister? They should be more careful with him today..."
"They'll manage!" answered Razumikhin reluctantly.
"And why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money, she doesn't seem to dislike him... and they don't have a kopeck? eh?"
"Why are you interrogating me?" cried Razumikhin irritably. "How should I know whether they have a kopeck or not? Ask them yourself, maybe you'll find out..."
"Phew, how stupid you are sometimes! Yesterday's drunk is still in you... Goodbye; thank Praskovya Pavlovna for me for the night's lodging. She locked herself in, didn't answer my bonjour through the door, but she herself got up at seven o'clock, the samovar was carried to her through the corridor from the kitchen... I wasn't deemed worthy of seeing her..."
Exactly at nine o'clock Razumikhin appeared at Bakaleyev's furnished rooms. Both ladies had been waiting for him for a long time with hysterical impatience. They had risen at seven o'clock or even earlier. He entered gloomy as night, bowed awkwardly, for which he immediately became angry—at himself, of course. He had reckoned without the host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna simply rushed to him, seized both his hands, and almost kissed them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna; but even in that haughty face there was at that moment such an expression of gratitude and friendship, such complete and unexpected respect (instead of those mocking looks and involuntary, poorly concealed contempt!), that it truly would have been easier for him if he'd been met with abuse, because as it was, it became too embarrassing. Fortunately, there was a ready topic for conversation, and he quickly seized upon it.
Hearing that "he hasn't woken up yet," but "everything is excellent," Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that this was for the best, "because she very, very, very much needed to talk beforehand." There followed a question about tea and an invitation to drink it together; they themselves had not yet had any while waiting for Razumikhin. Avdotya Romanovna rang, a dirty ragamuffin appeared in response, and he was ordered to bring tea, which was finally served, but so dirty and so indecently that the ladies felt ashamed. Razumikhin energetically began to curse the rooms, but, remembering Luzhin, fell silent, became embarrassed, and was terribly glad when Pulcheria Alexandrovna's questions finally poured out in a continuous stream.
Answering them, he talked for three quarters of an hour, constantly interrupted and questioned, and managed to convey all the most important and necessary facts he knew about the last year of Rodion Romanovich's life, concluding with a detailed account of his illness. He omitted much, however, that needed to be omitted, including the scene at the police station with all its consequences. His story was listened to eagerly; but when he thought he had finished and satisfied his listeners, it turned out that for them he had seemingly not yet begun.
"Tell me, tell me, what do you think... oh, forgive me, I still don't know your name?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurried.
"Dmitri Prokofych."
"So, Dmitri Prokofych, I would very, very much like to know... how in general... he views things now, that is, understand me, how can I say this, that is, it's better to say: what does he love and what does he not love? Is he always so irritable? What are his desires and, so to speak, dreams, if possible? What exactly has a particular influence on him now? In a word, I would like..."
"Oh, mama, how can one answer all that at once!" remarked Dunya.
"Oh my God, I didn't expect to find him like this at all, Dmitri Prokofych."
"That's very natural, ma'am," answered Dmitri Prokofych. "I have no mother, but my uncle comes here every year and almost every time doesn't recognize me, even from the outside, and he's an intelligent man; well, and in your three years of separation, much water has flowed. But what can I tell you? I've known Rodion for a year and a half: sullen, gloomy, arrogant and proud; recently (and perhaps much earlier) suspicious and hypochondriac. Magnanimous and kind. Doesn't like to express his feelings and would sooner do something cruel than express his heart in words. Sometimes, however, he's not hypochondriac at all, but simply cold and unfeeling to the point of inhumanity, really, as if two opposite characters were alternating in him. Terribly uncommunicative at times! Everything is inconvenient for him, everything interferes with him, yet he lies there doing nothing. Not sarcastic, and not because he lacks wit, but as if he hasn't time for such trifles. Doesn't listen to what people say. Never interested in what everyone else is interested in at a given moment. Values himself terribly highly and, it seems, not without some right to do so. Well, what else?.. I think your arrival will have the most salutary influence on him."
"Oh, God grant it!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, tormented by Razumikhin's account of her Rodya.
And Razumikhin finally glanced more cheerfully at Avdotya Romanovna. He had glanced at her often during the conversation, but fleetingly, for only an instant, and immediately looked away. Avdotya Romanovna sometimes sat at the table listening attentively, then got up again and began to walk, in her usual manner, from corner to corner, arms crossed, lips compressed, occasionally asking a question without interrupting her walking, lost in thought. She too had the habit of not listening to the end of what was said. She was dressed in some dark dress of light material, and around her neck was tied a white transparent scarf. Razumikhin immediately noticed by many signs that the circumstances of both women were extremely poor. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he would, it seems, not have feared her at all; now, however, perhaps precisely because she was so poorly dressed and because he noticed all this miserable setting, fear settled in his heart, and he began to be afraid of every word, every gesture, which was, of course, constraining for a man who didn't trust himself anyway.
"You've said much that's curious about my brother's character and... said it impartially. That's good; I thought you worshipped him," remarked Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. "It also seems true that a woman should be near him," she added pensively.
"I didn't say that, but perhaps you're right in this too, only..."
"What?"
"He doesn't love anyone; perhaps he never will," Razumikhin cut off.
"You mean he's incapable of love?"
"You know, Avdotya Romanovna, you yourself are terribly like your brother, even in everything!" he suddenly blurted out, unexpectedly for himself, but immediately, remembering what he had just been saying to her about her brother, turned red as a lobster and became terribly embarrassed. Avdotya Romanovna couldn't help laughing as she looked at him.
"You may both be mistaken about Rodya," picked up Pulcheria Alexandrovna, somewhat piqued. "I'm not talking about now, Dunechka. What Pyotr Petrovich writes in this letter... and what we supposed with you—may not be true, but you can't imagine, Dmitri Prokofych, how fantastical and, how shall I say it, capricious he is. I could never trust his character, even when he was only fifteen years old. I'm convinced that even now he might suddenly do something with himself that no other person would ever think of doing... One needn't look far: do you know how he amazed me, shook me, and almost killed me a year and a half ago, when he took it into his head to marry that, what's her name—the daughter of this Zarnitsyna, his landlady?"
"Do you know anything in detail about that story?" asked Avdotya Romanovna.
"Do you think," Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued with fervor, "that my tears, my pleas, my illness, my death, perhaps, from grief, our poverty would have stopped him then? He would have calmly stepped over all obstacles. But doesn't he, doesn't he love us?"
"He never spoke to me himself about this story," Razumikhin answered cautiously, "but I heard something from Mrs. Zarnitsyna herself, who isn't much of a storyteller in her own right, and what I heard was, perhaps, even somewhat strange..."
"But what, what did you hear?" both women asked at once.
"However, nothing too especially unusual. I only learned that this marriage, completely arranged and not taking place only because of the bride's death, was very much not to Mrs. Zarnitsyna's liking... Besides, they say the bride wasn't even pretty, that is, they say she was even ugly... and so sickly, and... and strange... but apparently with some virtues. There must have been some virtues; otherwise one can't understand anything... There was no dowry either, but he wouldn't have counted on a dowry... In general it's difficult to judge such a matter."
"I'm sure she was a worthy girl," Avdotya Romanovna remarked briefly.
"God forgive me, but I was glad at her death, though I don't know which of them would have destroyed the other: he her, or she him?" concluded Pulcheria Alexandrovna; then cautiously, with pauses and with continual glances at Dunya, which was obviously unpleasant to her, she began again to question about yesterday's scene between Rodya and Luzhin. This incident evidently worried her most of all, to the point of fear and trembling. Razumikhin recounted everything again in detail, but this time added his own conclusion: he directly accused Raskolnikov of deliberately insulting Pyotr Petrovich, this time excusing him very little on account of his illness.
"He thought this up before his illness," he added.
"I think so too," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna with a crushed look. But she was very struck that Razumikhin expressed himself so cautiously about Pyotr Petrovich this time and even as if with respect. Avdotya Romanovna was also struck by this.
"So that's your opinion of Pyotr Petrovich?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna couldn't help asking.
"I can have no other opinion of your daughter's future husband," Razumikhin answered firmly and with warmth, "and I'm not saying this out of mere vulgar politeness, but because... because... well, at least for this one reason alone, that Avdotya Romanovna herself, voluntarily, deigned to choose this man. If I abused him so yesterday, it was because yesterday I was filthily drunk and also... mad; yes, mad, out of my mind, went crazy, completely... and today I'm ashamed of it!" He blushed and fell silent. Avdotya Romanovna flushed but did not break the silence. She had not uttered a single word since the moment they began talking about Luzhin.
Meanwhile Pulcheria Alexandrovna, without her support, was visibly in indecision. Finally, faltering and continually glancing at her daughter, she announced that one circumstance was worrying her extremely now.
"You see, Dmitri Prokofych..." she began. "Shall I be completely frank with Dmitri Prokofych, Dunechka?"
"Of course, mama," Avdotya Romanovna remarked impressively.
"Here's the thing," the other hurried, as if a mountain had been lifted from her by the permission to communicate her grief. "Very early this morning we received a note from Pyotr Petrovich in response to our notification yesterday about our arrival. You see, yesterday he was supposed to meet us at the station, as he promised. Instead, some lackey was sent to meet us at the station with the address of these rooms and to show us the way, and Pyotr Petrovich instructed that he would come to us here himself this morning. Instead, this morning this note came from him... It's best if you read it yourself; there's a point in it that worries me very much... you'll see for yourself what point it is, and... tell me your frank opinion, Dmitri Prokofych! You know Rodya's character best and can advise best. I warn you that Dunechka has already resolved everything from the start, but I, I still don't know how to act, and... and I've been waiting for you."
Razumikhin unfolded the note, dated yesterday, and read the following:
"Dear Madam Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honor to inform you that owing to unexpectedly arising hindrances I could not meet you at the debarkation point, having sent for that purpose a man who is quite efficient. Equally I shall deprive myself of the honor of meeting with you tomorrow morning, owing to urgent Senate business and so as not to interfere with your family meeting with your son and Avdotya Romanovna's with her brother. I shall have the honor of visiting you and paying my respects in your quarters no earlier than tomorrow evening, precisely at eight o'clock in the afternoon, wherewith I venture to add an earnest and, I will add to that, urgent request that Rodion Romanovich not be present at our general meeting, as he offended me in an unprecedented and discourteous manner during my visit to him in his illness yesterday and, besides, having a necessary and detailed explanation with you personally regarding a certain point, concerning which I wish to know your own interpretation. I have the honor herewith to forewarn you that if, contrary to my request, I encounter Rodion Romanovich, I shall be forced to withdraw immediately, and then you have only yourselves to blame. I write this in the supposition that Rodion Romanovich, who seemed so ill during my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later, and consequently, having left the courtyard, may come to you as well. I was confirmed in this by my own eyes, in the apartment of a certain drunkard, run over by horses and now deceased from this, to whose daughter, a young lady of notorious conduct, he gave yesterday as much as twenty-five rubles, under the pretext of the funeral, which greatly surprised me, knowing with what difficulties you collected this sum. Wherewith, expressing my particular respect to the esteemed Avdotya Romanovna, I ask you to accept the feelings of respectful devotion of
your humble servant
P. Luzhin."
"What should I do now, Dmitri Prokofych?" began Pulcheria Alexandrovna, almost crying. "Well, how can I suggest to Rodya not to come? He so insistently demanded yesterday that Pyotr Petrovich be refused, and now he himself is ordered not to be received! And he'll come on purpose when he finds out, and... what will happen then?"
"Act as Avdotya Romanovna has decided," Razumikhin answered calmly and immediately.
"Oh, my God! She says... she says God knows what and doesn't explain her purpose to me! She says it will be better, that is, not that it's better, but for some reason it's supposedly necessary that Rodya also come on purpose today at eight o'clock and that they absolutely must meet... And I didn't even want to show him the letter, and somehow do it cunningly, through you, so that he wouldn't come... because he's so irritable... And I don't understand anything, what drunkard died, and what daughter, and how could he give all his last money to this daughter... which..."
"Which cost you so dearly, mama," added Avdotya Romanovna.
"He was beside himself yesterday," Razumikhin said pensively. "If you knew what he was saying yesterday at the tavern, though it was intelligent... hmm! He really did say something to me yesterday about some deceased person and some girl when we were going home, but I didn't understand a word... But then, I myself yesterday..."
"Best of all, mama, let's go to him ourselves, and there, I assure you, we'll immediately see what to do. And besides, it's time—good Lord! Past eleven!" she exclaimed, glancing at her magnificent gold enameled watch hanging on her neck on a thin Venetian chain and terribly out of harmony with the rest of her attire. "A gift from the fiancé," thought Razumikhin.
"Oh, it's time!.. Time, Dunechka, time!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna fussed anxiously, "he'll think we're angry from yesterday, that we're taking so long to come. Oh, my God!"
Saying this, she hastily threw on her mantilla and put on her hat; Dunechka also dressed. Her gloves were not only worn but even torn, which Razumikhin noticed, and yet this obvious poverty of costume even lent both ladies an air of some special dignity, which is always the case with those who know how to wear poor clothing. Razumikhin looked at Dunechka with reverence and was proud to be escorting her. "That queen," he thought to himself, "who mended her stockings in prison certainly looked like a real queen at that moment and even more so than during the most magnificent ceremonies and processions."
"My God!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "would I have thought that I would be afraid of meeting with my son, with my dear, dear Rodya, as I'm afraid now!.. I'm afraid, Dmitri Prokofych!" she added, glancing timidly at him.
"Don't be afraid, mama," said Dunya, kissing her, "better believe in him. I believe."
"Oh, my God! I believe too, but I didn't sleep all night!" cried the poor woman.
They went out into the street.
"You know, Dunechka, as soon as I fell asleep a little toward morning, I suddenly dreamed of the late Marfa Petrovna... and all in white... she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, and so sternly, sternly, as if condemning me... Is this a good sign? Oh, my God, Dmitri Prokofych, you don't know yet: Marfa Petrovna is dead!"
"No, I don't know; who is Marfa Petrovna?"
"Suddenly! And imagine..."
"Later, mama," Dunya intervened, "they still don't know who Marfa Petrovna is."
"Ah, you don't know? And I thought everything was already known to you. You'll forgive me, Dmitri Prokofych, my mind has simply been wandering these days. Truly, I consider you as if you were our providence, and so I was convinced that everything was already known to you. I consider you as family... Don't be angry that I say so. Oh, my God, what's wrong with your right hand! Did you hurt it?"
"Yes, I hurt it," murmured the happy Razumikhin.
"I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dunya corrects me... But, my God, what a closet he lives in! Has he woken up, I wonder? And this woman, his landlady, calls this a room? Listen, you say he doesn't like to show his heart, so maybe I'll bore him with my... weaknesses?.. Won't you teach me, Dmitri Prokofych? How should I be with him? I'm, you know, completely lost."
"Don't question him too much about anything if you see him frowning; especially don't ask much about his health: he doesn't like it."
"Oh, Dmitri Prokofych, how hard it is to be a mother! But here's the staircase... What a terrible staircase!"
"Mama, you're even pale, calm yourself, dear," said Dunya, caressing her, "he should still be happy to see you, and you're tormenting yourself so," she added, her eyes flashing.
"Wait, I'll look ahead to see if he's awake."
The ladies quietly followed Razumikhin, who had gone ahead up the stairs, and when they reached the fourth floor level with the landlady's door, they noticed that the landlady's door was open a tiny crack and that two quick black eyes were examining both of them from the darkness. When their gazes met, however, the door suddenly slammed shut, and with such a bang that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out in fright.